OF  THE 


U  N  I  VLR.SITY 
or  ILLINOIS 

&Z\ 
CBS 

\a>a>T 


,,Y'^'^tRSITY  OF 
ILLINOIS  I  IBRARY 

AT  L'RBm  chXAiGN 
^ I ACKl 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Eedalma  Frontispiece 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  George  Fuller. 

Deep  Mountain  Gokge   .  21 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  Fred.  B.  Schell. 

*'A  FIGUUE  LITHE,  ALL  WHITE  AND  SAFFRON  ROBED "     ....  65 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  L.  Taylor. 

"Fedalma  entered"   83 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 

"  My  FATHER  .  .  .  COMES  ...  MY  FATHER"  118 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 

"His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung"    .    .  187 

Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew  from  drawing  by  W.  L. 
Sheppard. 

"Ay,  'tis  a  sword  that  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the 

TRUE  Zinc  ALA "  218 

Photo  etching  from  painting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 

"Down  fell  the  great  chief"  261 

Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew  from  drawing  by  W.  L. 
Sheppard. 


X  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"Theik  sails  like  broad  wings  poised"  269 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  Edmund  H.  Garkett. 

"Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song"  293 

Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew  from  painting  by  W.  St.  John 
Harper. 

"He  sought  the  screen  of  thorny  thickets"  304 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 

Come  with  me  to  the  mountain  "  307 

Plioto-etching  from  painting  by  Fred.  B.  Schell. 

Fair  Countess  Linda  311 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  L.  Taylor. 

"Place  eor  the  Queen  of  Song"  323 

Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew  from  painting  by  Robert 
Lewis. 

"Armgart,  dear  Armgart,  only  speak  to  me"  342 

Engraved  by  George  T.  Andrew  from  painting  by  Robert 
Lewis. 

Lisa  360 

Original  etching  by  J.  Wells  Champney. 

Brother  and  Sister  392 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  H.  Shelton. 

Two  Lovers  428 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  W.  L.  Taylor. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


{From  the  Contemporary  Review,  vol,  viii,  p,  397.) 

As  if  a  strong,  delightful  water  that  we  knew  only  as  a  river 
appeared  in  the  character  of  a  fountain ;  as  if  one  whom  we 
had  wondered  at  as  a  good  walker  or  inexhaustible  pedes- 
trian, began  to  dance ;  as  if  Mr.  Bright,  in  the  middle  of  a 
public  meeting,  were  to  oblige  the  company  with  a  song,  — 
no,  no,  not  like  that  exactly,  but  like  something  quite  new,  — 
is  the  appearance  of  George  Eliot  in  the  character  of  a  poet. 
"  The  Spanish  G-ypsy,^'  a  poem  in  five  books,  originally  writ* 
ten,  as  a  prefatory  note  informs  us,  in  the  winter  of  1864-65, 
and,  after  a  visit  to  Spain  in  1867,  re-written  and  amplified, 
is  before  us.  It  is  a  great  volume  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
octavo  pages ;  and  the  first  thing  which  strikes  the  reader  is, 
that  it  is  a  good  deal  longer  than  he  expected  it  would  be. 
This  is  bad,  to  begin  with.  What  right  has  anybody  to  make 
a  poem  longer  than  one  expected?  The  next  thing  that 
strikes  one  is,  —  at  all  events,  the  next  thing  that  struck  me 
was,  as  I  very  hastily  turned  over  the  book,  —  that  the  fine 
largo  of  the  author's  manner,  continued  through  so  many 
pages,  was  a  very  little  burdensome  in  its  effect.  That  may 
come  of  the  specific  levity  of  my  taste ;  but  it  is  as  well  to 
be  quite  frank. 

Dr.  Holmes,  of  Boston,  says,  —  I  fear  I  am  repeating  my- 
self, as  he  did  with  his  illustration  of  the  alighting  huma,— 

1 


2 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


that  a  poem  is  like  a  violin  in  the  respect  that  it  needs  to  be 
kept  and  used  a  good  deal  before  you  know  what  music  there 
is  in  it.  If  that  is  so,  what  may  here  be  said  of  George 
Eliot's  poem  will  have  but  little  value ;  for  the  book  has  only 
been  in  my  hand  a  few  days^  at  a  time  when  my  preoccupa- 
tion is  great^  and  reading  is  painful  to  me.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  I  do  really  think  my  hasty  impressions  are  correct  in 
this  case ;  and,  in  the  second,  I  shall  find  some  way  of  re- 
turning to  the  book,  if  after  very  often-repeated  readings 
(according  to  my  habit)  I  alter  any  of  my  opinions. 

In  the  Argosy  I  once  gave  reasons  for  looking  forward  with 
deep  interest  to  anything  George  Eliot  might  do  in  the  shape 
of  poetry,  and  also  hinted  the  direction  in  which  her  risk  of 
greater  or  less  failure  appeared  to  me  to  lie.  You  can  never 
reckon  up  these  high-strung  natures,  ever  ready  to  be  re-im- 
pregnated,''  or  tell  what  surprises  they  may  have  in  store  for 
you.  It  had  often  struck  me  that  there  was  a  vein  of  poetic 
expression  in  the  writing  of  George  Eliot,  of  which  a  hundred 
instances  might  have  been  given.  But  the  question  of  ques- 
tions remained :  Had  she  such  a  power,  not  to  say  necessity, 
of  spontaneous  expression  in  verse,  that  when  we  saw  her 
poetry  we  should  inevitably  say,  as  Milton  said  of  himself, 
that  the  expression  in  verse  was  the  right-hand  speech,  that 
in  prose  the  left-hand  speech  ?  How  fine  are  the  shades  or 
gradations  of  quality  in  this  respect,  can  be  little  understood 
by  those  who  have  not,  by  instinct  or  otherwise,  fed,  so  to 
speak,  on  verse.  For  example,  we  all  know  that  Wordsworth 
often  wrote,  in  the  printed  form  of  verse,  the  most  utterly 
detestable  prose.  Yet  he  could  and  did  produce  most  exqui- 
site verse.  Again,  a  living  poet  of  the  school  of  Wordsworth, 
Mr.  Henry  Taylor,  barely,  or  little  better  than  barely,  enables 
us  to  say  of  him  that  verse  is  his  right-hand  and  prose  his 
left.  Still,  after  some  little  demur,  we  are  able  to  say  it ; 
and  we  call  him  a  poet. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


3 


It  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  is  by  any  means  a  matter 
of  mere  fluency,  correctness,  or  ease  of  numbers.  Macaulay 
wrote  verses  far  superior  in  these  particulars  to  many  of  Mr. 
Henry  Taylor's  and  many  of  Wordsworth's.  Yet  verse  was, 
unequivocally,  Macaulay's  left-hand;  and  after  adolescence, 
few  people  can  read  his  verse  for  poetry.  If  I  were  not  un- 
willing to  rouse  the  prejudice  of  (I  fear !)  most  of  my  read- 
ers, I  should  here  add  Edgar  Poe ;  and,  indeed,  I  really  can- 
not spare  him  as  an  illustration.  He  must  have  some  queer 
hybrid  place,  all  to  himself  (which  it  would  take  an  essay  to 
define) ;  but  though  he  may  be  said  to  have  felt  verse  his 
right-hand  medium  of  expression,  some  few  of  us  hesitate  to 
call  him  a  poet.  Not  to  complicate  this  matter,  let  us  come  at 
once  to  the  point.  What  is  it  that  in  excellent  verse  differen- 
tiates ^  that  which  is  poetry  and  that  which  is  not  ?  Not  mere 
fluency,  but  unconscious  fluency ;  in  a  word,  simplicity. 
Whatever  art  may  do  for  the  poet,  he  must  be  a  simple  musi- 
cian to  begin  with. 

In  looking  rapidly  over  this  poem  of  George  Eliot's  I  have 
—  let  me  confess  it  —  I  have  been  inclined  to  fear  that  this 
"  note  "  of  simplicity  is  wanting.  And,  in  spite  of  an  abun- 
dance of  fine  passages,  I  fear,  also,  there  is  not  the  perfect 
fluency  of  use  and  wont.  It  has  been  maintained,  under  shel- 
ter of  Elizabethan  models,  that  you  may  do  almost  anything 
in  dramatic  blank  verse,  in  the  way  of  lengthening  and  short- 
ening the  line.  I  object  to  the  doctrine,  and  maintain  that 
the  Elizabethan  examples  cited  are,  in  many  instances,  mere 
bits  of  negligence  ;  and,  in  others,  roughnesses  of  workmanship 
belonging  to  the  lusty  youth  of  a  new  art.  Blank  verse  means 
ten-syllable  iambic  lines.  If  there  are  deviations  from  this 
form,  as  there  often  are,  and  should  be,  they  must  be  regu- 
lated deviations,  not  accidental  intrusions  of  other  forms.  .  .  . 

^  I  have  seen  this  word  objected  to  as  a  scientific  foppery  ;  but  in  its  forni 
of  to  difference^  the  verb  is  a  good  old  English  verb. 


4 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  versification  of  "The  Spanish  Gypsy"  often  breaks  out 
into  the  very  highest  excellence  5  but  it  too  often  wants  spon- 
taneity and  simplicity. 

As  the  same  observation  applies  to  the  lyrics,  one  has  little 
hesitation  in  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  the  primal  pecu- 
liarity which  distinguishes  the  singer  from  the  sayer  is  either 
lacking  in  George  Eliot  or  that  its  function  has  suffered  from 
disuse.  I  still  hesitate  to  say  suffered  irreparably,  because 
I  still  think  the  orbit  of  a  genius  like  George  Eliot's  incal- 
culable. With  such  a  noble  ambition,  and  such  immense 
resources,  one  may  do  almost  anything.  Thus,  though  I 
confess  I  now  think  it  improbable  that  George  Eliot  will  ever 
exhibit  in  a  poem  the  true  simplicity  of  the  singer,  and  compel 
her  readers  to  admit  that  her  music  is  better  than  her  speech, 
I  hesitate,  or  well-nigh  hesitate,  in  saying  even  so  much  as 
that.  It  is  very  pathetic  that  a  noble  ambition  should  come 
so  near  its  mark  and  yet  fail.  Only  what  are  we  to  do  ?  The 
truth  must  be  spoken. 

Against  the  presumption  raised  by  the  bulk  of  the  writing 
must,  in  fairness,  be  set  the  evidence  of  particular  passages, 
in  which  the  author  attains  such  high  excellence  that  if  one 
had  seen  those  passages  alone,  there  would  have  been  no 
hesitation  or  doubt  on  the  score  of  melody.  A  few  of  these, 
in  some  of  which  the  reader  will  catch  fine  touches  of  Eliza- 
bethan inspiration,  I  will  pick  out  of  the  mass. 

Take,  for  an  example,  this  description  of  Zarca :  — 

"  He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  kejs  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie." 

And  this :  — 

"  My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 
Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 
And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 
They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea." 


GEOKGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


6 


And  this :  — 

"  Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness." 

And  this :  — 

"  Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 
As  a  celestial  portent." 

Lastly,  the  best  lyric  in  the  poem :  — 

"  The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me. 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach ;  my  little  sister  went. 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still. 
But  it  rose  higher :  little  Lisa  went. 
And  I  am  lonely. 

"  The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from ;  sea-birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart ;  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

"  The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday :  how  fast  they  walk  I 
I 'm  lame,  they  push  me  :  little  Lisa  went. 
And  I  am  lonely." 

Besides  the  want  of  spontaneity  and  simplicity  in  the 
verse,  there  are  other  points  which  make  ns  feel,  with  what- 
ever reluctance  to  admit  the  thing  we  nndoubtingly  see,  that 
in  '^The  Spanish  Gypsy''  something  is  wanting,  and  in  that 
something  everything  that  endears  a  poem  as  a  poem.  The 
writing  has  the  diffuseness  of  literature  rather  than  the  con- 
densation of  poetry ;  and,  admirable  as  some  of  it  is,  we  wish 
it  away :  at  the  lowest,  we  say  to  ourselves,  if  a  poet  had  had 


6 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


to  utter  this,  our  pleasure  would  have  been  perfect ;  but,  as  it 
is,  what  is  before  us  is  almost  too  good,  and  yet  it  is  not  good 
enough ;  it  does  not  compel  us  to  think,  le  poete  a  le  frisson^ 
either  while  we  read  or  afterwards.  There  is  too  much 
aggregation  and  accumulation  about  it ;  we  are  set  thinking, 
and  set  feeling ;  we  are  agitated ;  but  we  are  not  thrilled  by 
any  single  sudden  notes.  Lastly,  or  all  but  lastly,  some  of 
the  frequent  touches  of  humorous  detail  are  fatal :  — 
"  Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal, 
Exit  the  cat,  retreating  towards  the  dark." 

This,  and  all  this  kind  of  thing,  is  gravely  wrong  in  a  poem. 
In  some  cases  the  phraseology  has  this  species  of  modern 
familiarity  and  curtness ;  in  others,  the  equally  distinguish- 
able largo  of  the  modern  philosophic  manner,  while  what  is 
supremely  needed,  namely,  finish,  is  what  we  in  vain  go 
longing  for. 

Finally,  the  intellectual  groundwork,  or  outline,  of  the  poem 
shows  far  too  plainly  under  the  coloring  of  passion  and  the 
movement  of  the  story.  Since  "  Silas  Marner  we  have  had 
no  book  from  George  Eliot  to  which  this  criticism  would  not, 
in  some  degree,  be  appHcable.  There  is  not  room  here  for 
any  exhibition  of  all  the  recurring  ideas  of  George  Eliot's 
writings,  but  one  in  particular  has  been  growing  more  and 
more  prominent  since  "  Silas  Marner,"  and  of  which  the  first 
hint  is  in  ^^The  Mill  on  the  Floss.''  "If  the  past  is  not  to 
bind  us,"  said  Maggie  TuUiver,  in  answer  to  the  importu- 
nities of  Stephen  Guest,  "  what  is  ? "  In  a  noticeable  and 
well-remembered  review  of  Mr.  Lecky's  "  History  of  Ration- 
alism," George  Eliot  told  us  that  the  best  part  of  our  lives 
was  made  up  of  organized  traditions  (I  quote  from  memory, 
but  the  meaning  was  plain).  Putting  these  two  things  to- 
gether, we  get  the  intellectual  ground-plan  of  "  The  Spanish 
Gypsy."  Perhaps  the  illustrious  author  of  the  poem  would 
resent  the  idea  that  any  moral  was  intended  to  be  conveyed 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


7 


by  lier  recent  writings ;  but,  assuredly,  this  moral  is  thrust 
upon  us  everywhere,  in  a  way  which  implies,  if  not  intention, 
very  eager  belief. 

Leaving  the  workmanship  and  the  intellectual  conception, 
or  interwoven  moral  criticism,  of  the  poem,  and  coming  to 
the  story,  I  am  sure  of  only  echoing  what  all  the  world  will 
say  when  I  call  this  in  the  highest  degree  poetic ;  and  poeti- 
cally dramatic,  too.  I  must  add,  and  with  emphasis,  that 
the  story  seems  to  me  to  gain,  as  a  story,  by  this  mode  of 
presentation,  —  as  I  firmly  believe  ^^Komola^^  would  have 
gained,  if  the  question  of  perfect  poetic  expression  could 
have  been  got  over.  In  other  words,  although  the  manner 
of  the  novelist  too  often  obtrudes  itself  in  "The  Spanish 
Gypsy,"  the  author  has  told  the  story  more  affectingly,  and 
with  much  more  of  truthfulness  and  local  color  and  manner, 
than  she  would  have  done  if  she  had  been  writing  it  as  a 
novel.  Compare,  for  example,  what  I  think  are  among  the 
very  finest  things  George  Eliot  has  ever  done,  —  the  scene 
between  Juan  the  troubadour  and  the  Gypsy  girls,  at  the 
opening  of  Book  III.,  and  the  scene  in  which  Don  Amador 
reads  to  the  retainers  of  Don  Silva  from  "Las  Siete  Par- 
tidas"  the  passage  beginning,  "Et  esta  gentileza  aviene  en 
tres  maneras  "  (the  critical  reader  who  stumbles  at  the  "  et 
must  be  informed  that  this  is  thirteenth-century  Spanish),  — 
compare  these  two  scenes,  I  say,  with  the  first  scene  in  the 
barber's  shop,  and  the  scene  of  the  Florentine  joke,  in  "Eo- 
mola,''  and  note  how  very  much  the  author  gains  by  assuming 
the  dramatic  form.  I  have  heard  readers  of  much  critical 
ability,  and  much  poetic  and  dramatic  instinct,  too,  complain 
that  they  did  not  see  the  force  of  those  scenes  in  "  Eomola ;  " 
but  it  must  be  an  incredibly  dull  person  that  misses  the  force 
of  those  scenes  in  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy."  The  love-passages, 
also,  are  exquisitely  beautiful ;  and  in  them  again  the  author 
has  gained  by  using  the  dramatic  form.    I  dare  to  add  that 


8 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


slie  has,  however,  lost  by  some  of  the  (so  to  speak)  "stage- 
directions."  We  don't  want  to  be  told  how  a  man  and  woman 
of  the  type  of  Don  Silva  and  Fedalma^  look  when  they  are 
saying  certain  things.  We  can  feel  pretty  sure  when  the 
moment  would  be  too  sweet  and  solemn  even  for  kissing. 
As  Sam  Slick  said,  "ISTatur'  teaches  that  air." 

The  story  of  "The  Spanish  Gypsy"  is  simply  this:  Fe- 
dalma,  a  Zincala,  is  lost  in  her  early  childhood,  and  brought 
"^Y^,  up  by  a  Spanish  duchess,  Don  Silva's  mother.  As  she  grows 
to  womanhood  Silva  loves  her,  and  she  is  on  the  point  of 
marrying  him  when  the  narrative  opens.  But  Fedalma's 
father,  Zarca,  a  Gypsy  Moses,  Hiawatha,  or  both,  devoted 
to  the  regeneration  of  his  tribe,  suddenly  appears  upon  the 
scene  and  claims  his  daughter.  Will  she  marry  Don  Silva,  or 
go  with  her  father  and  be  the  priestess  of  a  new  faith  to  the 
Zincali  ?  She  decides  to  accompany  her  father.  Upon  this 
Silva  renounces  his  position  as  a  Spanish  noble  and  Christian 
knight  and  becomes  a  Zincalo.  Tnis  implies  the  relinquish- 
ment of  his  post  as  commander  of  the  town  and  fortress  of 
Bedmar,  which  it  is  his  duty  to  guard  against  the  Moors ; 
but  he  is  not  aware,  at  the  time  he  takes  the  Gypsy  oath,  that 
Zarca  is  already  in  league  with  the  Moors  to  take  the  for- 
tress. Zarca  and  the  Moors,  however,  succeed  in  investing 
the  place,  and  some  noble  Spaniards,  friends  of  Silva^s,  in- 
cluding his  uncle,  Father  Isidor,  are  slain.  Mad  with  remorse 
and  rage,  Silva  stabs  Zarca,  but  is  allowed  to  go  free.  The 
poem  closes  with  the  departure  of  Silva  to  obtain  absolution 
from  the  Pope,  in  order  that  he  may  recommence  the  career 
of  a  Christian  knight,  and  the  departure  of  Fedalma  to  be- 
gin, as  best  she  may,  the  work  bequeathed  to  her  by  her 
father,  namely,  the  regeneration  of  the  Zincali. 

1 1  do  not  remember  having  ever  seen  this  name  before ;  it  is  an  exqui- 
sitely musical  word,  and,  I  suppose,  is  intended  to  mean  Faith  of  the  Soul ; 
or,  more  intelligibly  to  some  people  (not  to  be  envied),  Spiritual  Fidelity. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


9 


One  thing  is  obvious  on  the  face  of  this  story, — that  Silva 
was  guilty,  in  so  far  as  he  was  an  apostate.  But  there  will 
not  be  wanting  readers  who  when  asking  the  question  who 
was  the  cause  of  all  the  misery  with  which  the  narrative 
overflows,  will  say,  Fedalma.  It  was  all  very  well  to  say 
that  her  past  bound  her.  But  which  past  ?  When  Zarca 
started  up,  she  was  pledged  by  her  "  past to  Silva,  and  she 
loved  him.  What  Zarca  imported  into  the  situation  was,  as 
lawyers  say,  new  matter.  The  morrow  would  have  seen  her 
married  to  Silva ;  and  what  tlien,  if  Zarca  had  appeared  upon 
the  stage  with  his  Gypsy  patriotism  ?  All  the  future  was 
dark  to  her,  there  was  no  reason  whatever  to  believe  that 
either  she  or  Zarca  would  be  able  to  regenerate  the  Gypsies ; 
there  was  present  actual  proof  that  she  was  essential  to  Silva, 
life  of  his  life,  and  the  bond  of  his  being.  What  right  had 
she  to  forsake  him  ?  It  is  idle  to  discuss  this,  but  since,  as 
far  as  I  can  make  out,  there  is  distinct  teaching  in  the  poem, 
and  that  teaching  is  of  no  force  unless  Fedalma  was,  beyond 
question,  right,  it  is  perfectly  fair  and  appropriate  to  suggest 
that  there  is  room  for  question.  It  seems  to  me  a  little 
curious  that  George  Eliot  does  not  see  that  the  same  reason 
which  made  Sephardo,  the  astrologer,  a  son  first  and  a  Jew 
afterwards,  would  make  Fedalma  a  betrothed  woman  first 
and  a  Zincala  next. 

But  I  do  not  dwell  upon  this  point,  because  I  look  forward 
to  another  opportunity  of  dealing  with  what  we  are  now 
entitled  to  assume  is  George  Eliot's  evangel, — 

" .    .    .    .   that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past." 

Irreversible,  no  doubt,  but  —  "  Supreme  !  The  reader  must 
not  imagine  that  I  am  darting  captiously  at  a  word  here. 
Not  at  all.  George  Eliot  has  a  very  distinct  meaning,  which 
is  very  distinctly  affiliated  to  a  certain  mode  of  thought.  To 
this  mode  of  thought  may  be  traced  the  astounding  discords 


10 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


of  her  late  writings,  or  rather  the  one  astounding  discord 
which  runs  through  them. 

In  submitting  to  the  world  a  poem,  George  Eliot  is  under 
one  serious  disadvantage.  There  are  certain  particulars  in 
which  she  is  not  likely,  in  verse,  to  excel  her  own  prose. 
Clear  and  profound  conception,  and  emphatic,  luminous,  and 
affecting  presentation  of  character,  is  one  of  them.  The 
power  of  inventing  dramatic  situation  is  another.  In  these 
particulars  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ^'  falls  behind  nothing  that 
this  distinguished  writer  has  done ;  though  I  do  not  myself 
feel  that  either  Fedalma  or  Zarca  is  dramatically  presented 
to  us.  Indeed,  vivid  as  George  Eliot's  painting  of  character 
always  is,  and  profoundly  intelligent,  I  never  thought  it 
dramatic.  Nor  is  it.  Here,  as  in  the  other  books  of  George 
Eliot,  character  is  always  most  vividly  described  and  ana- 
lyzed ;  and  what  the  people  do  is,  of  course,  in  exact  accord- 
ance with  what  is  described ;  but  none  of  them  reveal  them- 
selves without  having  had  the  advantage  of  some  criticism. 
None  of  them,  that  is  to  say,  reveal  themselves  by  action 
only,  or  by  action  and  speech  only,  unless  the  speech  takes 
a  critical  form.  Zarca  is  shadowy,  and  Fedalma  shadowy. 
But  Juan  and  Silva  we  understand  well  because  they  are 
criticised ;  and  Isidor  the  prior,  and  Sephardo  the  Jew,  we 
understand  well,  because  their  talk  is  criticism  of  a  kind 
which  only  a  certain  order  of  mind  could  produce.  Perhaps 
the  finest  portions  of  the  poem  lie  in  some  of  these  critical 
or  quasi-critical  passages.  Let  us  take  "The  Astrologer^s 
Study'':  — 

"  A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman's  tower, 

A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 

And  the  bright  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 

Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 

Of  light  amid  the  dimness ;  here  and  there 

Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 

In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  u:  pillowed,  sleeps 


GEOEGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


11 


Right  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls. 

And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 

Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet  ; 

Pale-faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 

Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought ; 

Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate ; 

Beard  scant  and  grizzled ;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 

So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite. 

You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 

Eull-vowelled,  long-descended,  pregnant,  —  rich 

With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives." 

Juan's  criticism  of  himself :  — 

"  I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms  :  shoot  an  airy  guess 
And  bring  down  airy  likelihood,  —  some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Pact  goes  free, 
Or  else  some  image  of  reality 
That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 
Ask  for  conjecture,  —  I  can  thread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist  _ 
On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Right  to  Bedmar,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 
A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored." 

And,  assuredly,  I  must  not  omit  the  study  of  the  character  of 
Silva  himself ;  — 

"  A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 
In  his  acceptance,  dreading  aU  delight 
That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion : 
His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 
With  keen  imagination's  difficult  needs  ;  — 
Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o^er  with  eyes, 
Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 
Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 
Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 
With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 


12 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 

And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  naught.  • 

A  nature  half-transformed,  with  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 

Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe. 

Sinking  anon  to  farthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 

Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush 

Right  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.    A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery : 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously ;  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.    In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously." 

There  is  only  one  living  mind  which  could  have  given  us 
poetico-psychological  studies  of  human  character  like  these. 
There  is  no  comparison  in  range  of  faculty  between  such  a 
mind  and  John  Clare's.  Is  it  not  strange,  and  almost  pa- 
thetic, that  an  uncultivated  peasant  could  sing,  and  touch  us 
with  music,  as  no  speech  could ;  and  yet  that  a  highly  culti- 
vated mind  like  George  Eliot's  should  almost  overwhelm  our 
judgment  by  the  richness  and  volume  of  what  it  pours  forth 
in  the  name  of  song ;  and  yet  that  we  are  compelled  to  say 
the  bird-note  is  missing  ? 

Matthew  Browne. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 

Edited  by  J.  W.  CROSS. 


Among  my  wife's  papers  were  four  or  five  pages  of  manu- 
script headed  "  Notes  on  the  Spanish  Gypsy  and  Tragedy  in 
General.^'  There  is  no  evidence  as  to  the  date  at  which  this 
fragment  was  written,  and  it  seems  to  have  been  left  unfin- 
ished. But  there  was  evidently  some  care  to  preserve  it ;  and 
as  I  think  she  would  not  have  objected  to  its  presentation,  I 
give  it  here  exactly  as  it  stands.  It  completes  the  history  of 
the  poem. 

The  subject  of  '  The  Spanish  Gypsy '  was  originally  sug- 
gested to  me  by  a  picture  which  hangs  in  the  Scuola  di'  San 
Rocco  at  Venice,  over  the  door  of  the  large  Sala  containing 
Tintoretto's  frescos.  It  is  an  Annunciation,  said  to  be  by 
Titian.  Of  course  I  had  seen  numerous  pictures  of  this 
subject  before;  and  the  subject  had  always  attracted  me. 
But  in  this  my  second  visit  to  the  Scuola  di'  San  Eocco,  this 
small  picture  of  Titian's,  pointed  out  to  me  for  the  first  time, 
brought  a  new  train  of  thought.  It  occurred  to  me  that  here 
was  a  great  dramatic  motive  of  the  same  class  as  those  used 
by  the  Greek  dramatists,  yet  specifically  differing  from  them. 
A  young  maiden,  believing  herself  to  be  on  the  eve  of  the 
chief  event  of  her  life,  —  marriage,  —  about  to  share  in  the 
ordinary  lot  of  womanhood,  full  of  young  hope,  has  suddenly 
announced  to  her  that  she  is  chosen  to  fulfil  a  great  destiny, 


14       EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 


entailing  a  terribly  different  experience  from  that  of  ordinary 
womanhood.  She  is  chosen,  not  by  any  momentary  arbitrari- 
ness, but  as  a  result  of  foregoing  hereditary  conditions :  she 
obeys.  ^Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord.'  Here,  I  thought, 
is  a  subject  grander  than  that  of  Iphigenia,  and  it  has  never 
been  used.  I  came  home  with  this  in  my  mind,  meaning  to 
give  the  motive  a  clothing  in  some  suitable  set  of  historical 
and  local  conditions.  My  reflections  brought  me  nothing  that 
would  serve  me,  except  that  moment  in  Spanish  history  when 
the  struggle  with  the  Moors  was  attaining  its  climax,  and 
when  there  was  the  gypsy  race  present  under  such  conditions 
as  w^ould  enable  me  to  get  my  heroine  and  the  hereditary 
claim  on  her  among  the  gypsies.  I  required  the  opposition 
of  race  to  give  the  need  for  renouncing  the  expectation  of 
marriage.  I  could  not  use  the  Jews  or  the  Moors,  because 
the  facts  of  their  history  were  too  conspicuously  opposed  to 
the  working  out  of  my  catastrophe.  Meanwhile  the  subject 
had  become  more  and  more  pregnant  to  me.  I  saw  it  might 
be  taken  as  a  symbol  of  the  part  which  is  played  in  the 
general  human  lot  by  hereditary  conditions  in  the  largest 
sense,  and  of  the  fact  that  what  we  call  duty  is  entirely  made 
up  of  such  conditions ;  for  even  in  cases  of  just  antagonism 
to  the  narrow  view  of  hereditary  claims,  the  whole  back- 
ground of  the  particular  struggle  is  made  up  of  our  inherited 
nature.  Suppose  for  a  moment  that  our  conduct  at  great 
epochs  was  determined  entirely  by  reflection,  without  the 
immediate  intervention  of  feeling,  which  supersedes  reflec- 
tion, our  determination  as  to  the  right  would  consist  in  an 
adjustment  of  our  individual  needs  to  the  dire  necessities  of 
our  lot,  partly  as  to  our  natural  constitution,  partly  as  sharers 
of  life  with  our  fellow-beings.  Tragedy  consists  in  the  ter- 
rible difiiculty  of  this  adjustment,  — 

**  *  The  dire  strife  of  poor  Humanity's  afflicted  will, 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny.' 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE.  15 


Looking  at  individual  lots,  I  seemed  to  see  in  each  the  same 
story,  wrought  out  with  more  or  less  of  tragedy,  and  I  deter- 
mined the  elements  of  my  drama  under  the  influence  of  these 
ideas. 

"In  order  to  judge  properly  of  the  dramatic  structure  it 
must  not  be  considered  first  in  the  light  of  doctrinal  symbol- 
ism, but  in  the  light  of  a  tragedy  representing  some  grand  col- 
lision in  the  human  lot.  And  it  must  be  judged  accordingly. 
A  good  tragic  subject  must  represent  a  possible,  sufficiently 
probable,  not  a  common,  action  ;  and  to  be  really  tragic,  it 
must  represent  irreparable  collision  between  the  individual 
and  the  general  (in  differing  degrees  of  generality).  It  is  the 
individual  with  whom  we  sympathize,  and  the  general  of 
which  we  recognize  the  irresistible  power.  The  truth  of  this 
test  will  be  seen  by  applying  it  to  the  greatest  tragedies. 
The  collision  of  Greek  tragedy  is  often  that  between  heredi- 
tary, entailed  Nemesis  and  the  peculiar  individual  lot,  awak- 
ening our  sympathy,  of  the  particular  man  or  woman  whom  the 
Nemesis  is  shown  to  grasp  with  terrific  force.  Sometimes,  as 
in  the  Oresteia,  there  is  the  clashing  of  two  irreconcilable 
requirements,  —  two  duties,  as  we  should  say  in  these  times. 
The  murder  of  the  father  must  be  avenged  by  the  murder  of 
the  mother,  which  must  again  be  avenged.  These  two  tragic 
relations  of  the  individual  and  general,  and  of  two  irrecon- 
cilable *  oughts,'  may  be  —  will  be  —  seen  to  be  ahiiost  always 
combined.  The  Greeks  were  not  taking  an  artificial,  entirely 
erroneous  standpoint  in  their  art,  —  a  standpoint  which  dis- 
appeared altogether  with  their  religion  and  their  art.  They 
had  the  same  essential  elements  of  life  presented  to  them  as 
we  have,  and  their  art  symbolized  these  in  grand  schematic 
forms.  The  Prometheus  represents  the  ineffectual  struggle 
to  redeem  the  small  and  miserable  race  of  man,  against  the 
stronger  adverse  ordinances  that  govern  the  frame  of  things 
with  a  triumphant  power.    Coming  to  modern  tragedies,  what 


16        EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 

is  it  that  makes  Othello  a  great  tragic  subject  ?  A  story 
simply  of  a  jealous  husband  is  elevated  into  a  most  pathetic 
tragedy  by  the  hereditary  conditions  of  Othello's  lot,  which 
give  him  a  subjective  ground  for  distrust.  Faust,  Rigoletto 
Le  Roi  s' Amuse Brutus.  It  might  be  a  reasonable  ground 
of  objection  against  the  whole  structure  of  ^The  Spanish 
Gypsy,'  if  it  were  shown  that  the  action  is  outrageously 
improbable, — lying  outside  all  that  can  be  congruously  con- 
ceived of  human  actions.  It  is  not  a  reasonable  ground  of 
objection  that  they  would  have  done  better  to  act  otherwise, 
any  more  than  it  is  a  reasonable  objection  against  the  Iphigenia 
that  Agamemnon  would  have  done  better  not  to  sacrifice  his 
daughter. 

"As  renunciations  coming  under  the  same  great  class,  take 
the  renunciation  of  marriage  where  marriage  cannot  take 
place  without  entailing  misery  on  the  children. 

"A  tragedy  has  not  to  expound  why  the  individual  must  give 
way  to  the  general ;  it  has  to  show  that  it  is  compelled  to 
give  way, — the  tragedy  consisting  in  the  struggle  involved, 
and  often  in  the  entirely  calamitous  issue  in  spite  of  a  grand 
submission.  Silva  presents  the  tragedy  of  entire  rebellion ; 
Fedalma,  of  a  grand  submission,  which  is  rendered  vain  by 
the  effects  of  Silva's  rebellion ;  Zarca,  the  struggle  for  a  great 
end,  rendered  vain  by  the  surrounding  conditions  of  life. 

"  Now,  what  is  the  fact  about  our  individual  lots  ?  A 
woman,  say,  finds  herself  on  the  earth  with  an  inherited  organ- 
ization :  she  may  be  lame,  she  may  inherit  a  disease,  or  what  is 
tantamount  to  a  disease ;  she  may  be  a  negress,  or  have 
other  marks  of  race  repulsive  in  the  community  where  she  is 
born,  etc.  One  may  go  on  for  a  long  while  without  reaching 
the  limits  of  the  commonest  inherited  misfortunes.  It  is 
almost  a  mockery  to  say  to  such  human  beings,  '  Seek  your 
own  happiness.'  The  utmost  approach  to  well-being  that  can 
be  made  in  such  a  case  is  through  large  resignation  and 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE.  17 


acceptance  of  the  inevitable,  with  as  much  effort  to  overcome 
any  disadvantage  as  good  sense  will  shov/  to  be  attended  with 
a  likelihood  of  success.  Any  one  may  say,  that  is  the  dictate 
of  mere  rational  reflection.  But  calm  can  in  hardly  any  human 
organism  be  attained  by  rational  reflection.  Happily,  we  are 
not  left  to  that.  Love,  pity,  constituting  sympathy,  and 
generous  joy  with  regard  to  the  lot  of  our  fellow-men  conies 
in,  —  has  been  growing  since  the  beginning,  —  enormously 
enhanced  by  wider  vision  of  results,  by  an  imagination  ac- 
tively interested  in  the  lot  of  mankind  generally ;  and  these 
feelings  become  piety,  —  that  is,  loving,  willing  submission 
and  heroic  Promethean  effort  towards  high  possibilities,  which 
may  result  from  our  individual  life. 

"There  is  really  no  moral  ^sanction'  but  this  inward  im- 
pulse. The  will  of  God  is  the  same  thing  as  the  will  of  other 
men,  compelling  us  to  work  and  avoid  what  they  have  seen  to 
be  harmful  to  social  existence.  Disjoined  from  any  perceived 
good,  the  divine  will  is  simply  so  much  as  we  have  ascertained 
of  the  facts  of  existence  which  compel  obedience  at  our  peril. 
Any  other  notion  comes  from  the  supposition  of  arbitrary 
revelation. 

"That  favorite  view,  expressed  so  often  in  Clough's  poems, 
of  doing  duty  in  blindness  as  to  the  result,  is  likely  to  deepen 
the  substitution  of  egoistic  yearnings  for  really  moral  im- 
pulses. We  cannot  be  utterly  blind  to  the  results  of  duty, 
since  that  cannot  be  duty  which  is  not  already  judged  to  be 
for  human  good.  To  say  the  contrary  is  to  say  that  mankind 
have  reached  no  inductions  as  to  what  is  for  their  good  or 
evil. 

"  The  art  which  leaves  the  soul  in  despair  is  laming  to  the 
soul,  and  is  denounced  by  the  healthy  sentiment  of  an  active 
community.  The  consolatory  elements  in  '  The  Spanish 
Gypsy  ^  are  derived  from  two  convictions  or  sentiments 
which  so  conspicuously  pervade  it  that  they  may  be  said  to  be 


18        EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 


its  very  warp,  on  which  the  whole  action  is  woven.  These 
are :  (1)  The  importance  of  individual  deeds  ;  (2)  The  all- 
sufficiency  of  the  soul's  passions  in  determining  sympathetic 
action. 

"  In  Silva  is  presented  the  claim  of  fidelity  to  social  pledges  ; 
in  Fedalma,  the  claim  constituted  by  an  hereditary  lot  less 
consciously  shared. 

"  With  regard  to  the  supremacy  of  love  :  if  it  were  a  fact 
without  exception  that  man  or  woman  never  did  renounce  the 
joys  of  love,  there  could  never  have  sprung  up  a  notion  that 
such  renunciation  could  present  itself  as  a  duty.  If  no  parents 
had  ever  cared  for  their  children,  how  could  parental  affection 
have  been  reckoned  among  the  elements  of  life  ?  But  what 
are  the  facts  in  relation  to  this  matter  ?  Will  any  one  say 
that  faithfulness  to  the  marriage  tie  has  never  been  regarded 
as  a  duty,  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  the  profoundest  passion 
experienced  after  marriage  ?  Is  Guinevere's  conduct  the  type 
of  duty  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


POEMS 

OF 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 
BOOK  I. 

TTl  IS  the  warm  South,  where  Europe  spreads  her  lands 

JL   Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep  : 
Broad-breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 
(A  calm  earth-goddess  crowned  with  corn  and  vines) 
On  the  Mid  Sea  that  moans  with  memories, 
And  on  the  untravelled  Ocean,  whose  vast  tides 
Pant  dumbly  passionate  with  dreams  of  youth. 
This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 
And  gleaming  silvery  towards  the  northern  sky, 
Feeds  the  famed  stream  that  waters  Andalus 
And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air,  * 
By  Cordova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 
Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 
Of  Guadiana.    This  deep  mountain  gorge 
Slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed  plains 
Of  fair  Granada :  one  far-stretching  arm 
Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 
Of  Alpuj arras  where  the  new-bathed  Day 
With  oriflamme  uplifted  o'er  the  peaks 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Saddens  the  breasts  of  northward-looking  snows 

That  loved  the  nighty  and  soared  with  soaring  stars ; 

Flashing  the  signals  of  his  nearing  swiftness 

From  Almeria^s  purple-shadowed  bay 

On  to  the  far-off  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow,  — 

On  to  Alhambra^  strong  and  ruddy  heart 

Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 

A  maimed  giant  in  his  agony. 

This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 

And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele, 

Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks, 

Is  rich  Bedmar  :  't  was  Moorish  long  ago, 

But  now  the  Gross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque, 

And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 

The  fortress  gleams  in  Spanish  sunshine  now 

('T  is  south  a  mile  before  the  rays  are  Moorish),  — 

Hereditary  jewel,  agraffe  bright 

On  all  the  many-titled  privilege 

Of  young  Duke  Silva.    No  Castilian  knight 

That  serves  Queen  Isabel  has  higher  charge  ; 

For  near  this  frontier  sits  the  Moorish  king. 

Not  Boabdil  the  waverer,  who  usurps 

A  throne  he  trembles  in,  and  fawning  licks 

The  feet  of  conquerors,  but  that  fierce  lion 

Grisly  El  Zagal,  who  has  made  his  lair 

In  Guadix'  fort,  and  rushing  thence  with  strength, 

Half  his  own  fierceness,  half  the  untainted  heart 

Of  mountain  bands  that  fight  for  holiday. 

Wastes  the  fair  lands  that  lie  by  Alcala, 

Wreathing  his  horse's  neck  with  Christian  heads. 

To  keep  the  Christian  frontier,  —  such  high  trust 
Is  young  Duke  Silva's ;  and  the  time  is  great. 
(What  times  are  little  ?    To  the  sentinel 
That  hour  is  regal  when  he  mounts  on  guard.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


23 


The  fifteentli  century  since  the  Man  Divine 
Taught  and  was  hated  in  Capernaum 
Is  near  its  end,  —  is  falling  as  a  husk 
Away  from  all  the  fruit  its  years  have  ripened. 
The  Moslem  faith,  now  flickering  like  a  torch 
In  a  night  struggle  on  this  shore  of  Spain, 
Glares,  a  broad  column  of  advancing  flame, 
Along  the  Danube  and  the  Illyrian  shore 
Ear  into  Italy,  where  eager  monks. 

Who  watch  in  dreams  and  dream  the  while  they  watch, 

See  Christ  grow  paler  in  the  baleful  light, 

Crying  again  the  cry  of  the  forsaken. 

But  faith,  the  stronger  for  extremity. 

Becomes  prophetic,  hears  the  far-off  tread 

Of  western  chivalry,  sees  downward  sweep 

The  archangel  Michael  with  the  gleaming  sword, 

And  listens  for  the  shriek  of  hurrying  fiends 

Chased  from  their  revels  in  God's  sanctuary. 

So  trusts  the  monk,  and  lifts  appealing  eyes 

To  the  high  dome,  the  Church's  firmament. 

Where  the  blue  light-pierced  curtain,  rolled  away, 

Eeveals  the  throne  and  Him  who  sits  thereon. 

So  trust  the  men  whose  best  hope  for  the  world 

Is  ever  that  the  world  is  near  its  end : 

Impatient  of  the  stars  that  keep  their  course 

And  make  no  pathway  for  the  coming  Judge. 

But  other  futures  stir  the  world's  great  heart. 
The  West  now  enters  on  the  heritage 
Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors. 
The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harps 
That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 
Of  old  renown. 

ISTo  more,  as  once  in  sunny  Avignon, 

The  poet-scholar  spreads  the  Homeric  page, 


24 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  gazes  sadly,  like  the  deaf  at  song ; 
For  now  the  old  epic  voices  ring  again 
And  vibrate  with  the  beat  and  melody 
Stirred  by  the  warmth  of  old  Ionian  days. 
The  martyred  sage,  the  Attic  orator, 
Immortally  incarnate,  like  the  gods, 
In  spiritual  bodies,  winged  words 
Holding  a  universe  impalpable, 
)  Find  a  new  audience.  Forevermore, 

With  grander  resurrection  than  was  feigned 

Of  Attila's  fierce  Huns,  the  soul  of  Greece 

Conquers  the  bulk  of  Persia.    The  maimed  form 

Of  calmly  joyous  beauty,  marble-limbed, 

Yet  breathing  with  the  thought  that  shaped  its  lips, 

Looks  mild  reproach  from  out  its  opened  grave 

At  creeds  of  terror ;  and  the  vine-wreathed  god 

Eising,  a  stifled  question  from  the  silence, 

Fronts  the  pierced  Image  with  the  crown  of  thorns. 

The  soul  of  man  is  widening  towards  the  past : 

No  longer  hanging  at  the  breast  of  life 

Feeding  in  blindness  to  his  parentage,  — 

Quenching  all  wonder  with  Omnipotence, 

Praising  a  name  with  indolent  piety,  — 

He  spells  the  record  of  his  long  descent. 

More  largely  conscious  of  the  life  that  was. 

And  from  the  height  that  shows  where  morning  shone 

On  far-off  summits  pale  and  gloomy  now. 

The  horizon  widens  round  him,  and  the  west 

Looks  vast  with  untracked  waves  whereon  his  gaze 

Follows  the  flight  of  the  swift-vanished  bird 

That  like  the  sunken  sun  is  mirrored  still 

Upon  the  yearning  soul  within  the  eye. 

And  so  in  Cordova  through  patient  nights 

Columbus  watches,  or  he  sails  in  dreams 

Between  the  setting  stars  and  finds  new  day, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Then  wakes  again  to  the  old  weary  days, 

Girds  on  the  cord  and  frock  of  pale  Saint  Francis, 

And  like  him  zealous  pleads  with  foolish  men. 

I  ask  but  for  a  million  maravedis  : 
Give  me  three  caravels  to  find  a  world, 
New  shores,  new  realms,  new  soldiers  for  the  CrosSc 
Son  cosas  grandes  !  "    Thus  he  pleads  in  vain ; 
Yet  faints  not  utterly,  but  pleads  anew. 
Thinking,    God  means  it,  and  has  chosen  me." 
For  this  man  is  the  pulse  of  all  mankind 
Feeding  an  embryo  future,  offspring  strange 
Of  the  fond  Present,  that  with  mother-prayers 
And  mother-fancies  looks  for  championship 
Of  all  her  loved  beliefs  and  old-world  ways 
From  that  young  Time  she  bears  within  her  womb. 
The  sacred  places  shall  be  purged  again. 
The  Turk  converted,  and  the  Holy  Church, 
Like  the  mild  Virgin  with  the  outspread  robe, 
Shall  fold  all  tongues  and  nations  lovingly. 

But  since  God  works  by  armies,  who  shall  be 

The  modern  Cyrus  ?    Is  it  France  most  Christian, 

Who  with  his  lilies  and  brocaded  knights, 

French  oaths,  French  vices,  and  the  newest  style 

Of  out-puffed  sleeve,  shall  pass  from  west  to  east, 

A  winnowing  fan  to  purify  the  seed 

For  fair  millennial  harvests  soon  to  come  ? 

Or  is  not  Spain  the  land  of  chosen  warriors  ?  — 

Crusaders  consecrated  from  the  womb. 

Carrying  the  sword-cross  stamped  upon  their  souls 

By  the  long  yearnings  of  a  nation's  life, 

Through  all  the  seven  patient  centuries 

Since  first  Pelayo  and  his  resolute  band 

Trusted  the  God  within  their  Gothic  hearts 

At  Covadunga,  and  defied  Mahound ; 


26  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Beginning  so  the  Holy  War  of  Spain 

That  now  is  panting  with  the  eagerness 

Of  labor  near  its  end.    The  silver  cross 

Glitters  o^er  Malaga  and  streams  dread  light 

On  Moslem  galleys,  turning  all  their  stores 

From  threats  to  gifts.    What  Spanish  knight  is  he 

Who,  living  now,  holds  it  not  shame  to  live 

Apart  from  that  hereditary  battle 

Which  needs  his  sword  ?    Castilian  gentlemen 

Choose  not  their  task,  —  they  choose  to  do  it  well. 

The  time  is  great,  and  greater  no  man's  trust 
Than  his  who  keeps  the  fortress  for  his  king, 
Wearing  great  honors  as  some  delicate  robe 
Brocaded  o'er  with  names 't  were  sin  to  tarnish. 
Born  de  la  Cerda,  Calatravan  knight. 
Count  of  Segura,  fourth  Duke  of  Bedmar, 
Offshoot  from  that  high  stock  of  old  Castile 
Whose  topmost  branch,  is  proud  Medina  Celi, — 
Such  titles  with  their  blazonry  are  his 
Who  keeps  this  fortress,  sworn  Alcayde, 
Lord  of  the  valley,  master  of  the  town. 
Commanding  whom  he  will,  himself  commanded 
By  Christ  his  Lord  who  sees  him  from  the  Cross 
And  from  bright  heaven  where  the  Mother  pleads ; 
By  good  Saint  James  upon  the  milk-white  steed. 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spain ;  — 
By  the  dead  gaze  of  all  his  ancestors  ;  — 
And  by  the  mystery  of  his  Spanish  blood 
Charged  with  the  awe  and  glories  of  the  past. 
See  now  with  soldiers  in  his  front  and  rear 
He  winds  at  evening  through  the  narrow  streets 
That  toward  the  Castle  gate  climb  devious : 
His  charger,  of  fine  Andalusian  stock, 
An  Indian  beauty,  black  but  delicate, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


27 


Is  conscious  of  the  herald  trumpet  note, 

The  gathering  glances,  and  familiar  ways 

That  lead  fast  homeward :  she  forgets  fatigue, 

And  at  the  light  touch  of  the  master's  spur 

Thrills  with  the  zeal  to  bear  him  royally. 

Arches  her  neck  and  clambers  up  the  stones 

As  if  disdainful  of  the  difficult  steep. 

Night-black  the  charger,  black  the  rider's  plume, 

But  all  between  is  bright  with  morning  hues,  — 

Seems  ivory  and  gold  and  deep  blue  gems. 

And  starry  flashing  steel  and  pale  vermilion, 

All  set  in  jasper :  on  his  surcoat  white 

Glitter  the  swordbelt  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 

E-ed  on  the  back  and  breast  the  holy  cross. 

And  'twixt  the  helmet  and  the  soft-spun  white 

Thick  tawny  wavelets  like  the  lion's  mane 

Turn  backward  from  his  brow,  pale,  wide,  erect. 

Shadowing  blue  eyes,  —  blue  as  the  rain-washed  sky 

That  braced  the  early  stem  of  Gothic  kings 

He  claims  for  ancestry.    A  goodly  knight, 

A  noble  caballero,  broad  of  chest 

And  long  of  limb.    So  much  the  August  sun. 

Now  in  the  west  but  shooting  half  its  beams 

Past  a  dark  rocky  profile  toward  the  plain. 

At  winding  opportunities  across  the  slope 

Makes  suddenly  luminous  for  all  who  see : 

For  women  smiling  from  the  terraced  roofs ; 

For  boys  that  prone  on  trucks  with  head  up-propped. 

Lazy  and  curious,  stare  irreverent ; 

For  men  who  make  obeisance  with  degrees 

Of  good-will  shading  towards  servility, 

Where  good-will  ends  and  secret  fear  begins. 

And  curses,  too,  low-muttered  through  the  teeth, 

Explanatory  to  the  God  of  Shem. 


128  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELTOT. 

Five,  grouped  within  a  whitened  tavern  court 
Of  Moorish  fashion,  where  the  trellised  vines 
Purpling  above  their  heads  make  odorous  shade, 
Note  through  the  open  door  the  passers-by, 
Getting  some  rills  of  novelty  to  speed 
The  lagging  stream  of  talk  and  help  the  wine. 

is  Christian  to  drink  wine  :  whoso  denies 
His  flesh  at  bidding  save  of  Holy  Church, 
Let  him  beware  and  take  to  Christian  sins 
Lest  he  be  taxed  with  Moslem  sanctity. 

The  souls  are  five,  the  talkers  only  three. 

(No  time,  most  tainted  by  wrong  faith  and  rule, 

But  holds  some  listeners  and  dumb  animals.) 

Mine  Host  is  one :  he  with  the  well-arched  nose, 

Soft-eyed,  fat-handed,  loving  men  for  naught 

But  his  own  humor,  patting  old  and  young 

Upon  the  back,  and  mentioning  the  cost 

With  confidential  blandness,  as  a  tax 

That  he  collected  much  against  his  will 

From  Spaniards  who  were  all  his  bosom  friends : 

Warranted  Christian,  —  else  how  keep  an  inn. 

Which  calling  asks  true  faith  ?  though  like  his  wine 

Of  cheaper  sort,  a  trifle  over-new. 

His  father  was  a  convert,  chose  the  chrism 

As  men  choose  physic,  kept  his  chimney  warm 

With  smokiest  wood  upon  a  Saturday, 

Counted  his  gains  and  grudges  on  a  chaplet, 

And  crossed  himself  asleep  for  fear  of  spies ; 

Trusting  the  God  of  Israel  would  see 

'T  was  Christian  tyranny  that  made  him  base. 

Our  host  his  son  was  born  ten  years  too  soon. 

Had  heard  his  mother  call  him  Ephraim, 

Knew  holy  things  from  common,  thought  it  sin 

To  feast  on  days  when  Israel's  children  mourned, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


29 


So  had  to  be  converted  with  his  sire, 

To  doff  the  awe  he  learned  as  Ephraim, 

And  suit  his  manners  to  a  Christian  name. 

But  infant  awe,  that  unborn  breathing  thing, 

Dies  with  what  nourished  it,  can  never  rise 

From  the  dead  womb  and  walk  and  seek  new  pasture. 

Baptism  seemed  to  him  a  merry  game 

!N"ot  tried  before,  all  sacraments  a  mode 

Of  doing  homage  for  one's  property. 

And  all  religions  a  queer  human  whim 

Or  else  a  vice,  according  to  degrees : 

As,  't  is  a  whim  to  like  your  chestnuts  hot, 

Burn  your  own  mouth  and  draw  your  face  awry, 

A  vice  to  pelt  frogs  with  them,  —  animals 

Content  to  take  life  coolly.    And  Lorenzo 

Would  have  all  lives  made  easy,  even  lives 

Of  spiders  and  inquisitors,  yet  still 

Wishing  so  well  to  flies  and  Moors  and  Jews, 

He  rather  wished  the  others  easy  death ; 

For  loving  all  men  clearly  was  deferred 

Till  all  men  loved  each  other.    Such  mine  Host, 

With  chiselled  smile  caressing  Seneca, 

The  solemn  mastiff  leaning  on  his  knee. 

His  right-hand  guest  is  solemn  as  the  dog, 
Square-faced  and  massive  :  Blasco  is  his  name, 
A  prosperous  silversmith  from  Aragon ; 
In  speech  not  silvery,  rather  tuned  as  notes 
From  a  deep  vessel  made  of  plenteous  iron, 
Or  some  great  bell  of  slow  but  certain  swing 
That,  if  you  only  wait,  will  tell  the  hour 
As  well  as  flippant  clocks  that  strike  in  haste 
And  set  off  chiming  a  superfluous  tune,  — 
Like  Juan  there,  the  spare  man  with  the  lute, 
Who  makes  you  dizzy  with  his  rapid  tongue. 


30  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Whirring  athwart  your  mind  with  comment  swift 

On  speech  you  would  have  finished  by  and  by, 

Shooting  your  bird  for  you  while  you  are  loading, 

Cheapening  your  wisdom  as  a  pattern  known, 

Woven  by  any  shuttle  on  demand. 

Can  never  sit  quite  still,  too  :  sees  a  wasp 

And  kills  it  with  a  movement  like  a  fi.ash ; 

Whistles  low  notes  or  seems  to  thrum  his  lute 

As  a  mere  hyphen  ^twixt  two  syllables 

Of  any  steadier  man ;  walks  up  and  down 

And  snuffs  the  orange  flowers  and  shoots  a  pea 

To  hit  a  streak  of  light  let, through  the  awning. 

Has  a  queer  face  :  eyes  large  as  plums,  a  nose 

Small,  round,  uneven,  like  a  bit  of  wax 

Melted  and  cooled  by  chance.    Thin-fingered,  lithe, 

And  as  a  squirrel  noiseless,  startling  men 

Only  by  quickness.    In  his  speech  and  look 

A  touch  of  graceful  wildness,  as  of  things 

Not  trained  or  tamed  for  uses  of  the  world ; 

Most  like  the  Fauns  that  roamed  in  days  of  old 

About  the  listening  whispering  woods,  and  shared 

The  subtler  sense  of  sylvan  ears  and  eyes 

Undulled  by  scheming  thought,  yet  joined  the  rout 

Of  men  and  women  on  the  festal  days. 

And  played  the  syrinx  too,  and  knew  love's  pains, 

Turning  their  anguish  into  melody. 

For  Juan  was  a  minstrel  still,  in  times 

When  minstrelsy  was  held  a  thing  outworn. 

Spirits  seem  buried  and  their  epitaph 

Is  writ  in  Latin  by  severest  pens. 

Yet  still  they  flit  above  the  trodden  grave 

And  find  new  bodies,  animating  them 

In  quaint  and  ghostly  way  with  antique  souls. 

So  Juan  was  a  troubadour  revived, 

Freshening  life's  dusty  road  with  babbling  rills 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


31 


Of  wit  and  song,  living  'mid  harnessed  men 

With  limbs  ungalled  by  armor,  ready  so 

To  soothe  them  weary,  and  to  cheer  them  sad. 

Guest  at  the  board,  companion  in  the  camp, 

A  crystal  mirror  to  the  life  around, 

Flashing  the  comment  keen  of  simple  fact 

Defined  in  words  ;  lending  brief  lyric  voice 

To  grief  and  sadness  ;  hardly  taking  note 

Of  difference  betwixt  his  own  and  others' ; 

But  rather  singing  as  a  listener 

To  the  deep  moans,  the  cries,  the  wild  strong  joys 

Of  universal  Nature,  old  yet  young. 

Such  Juan,  the  third  talker,  shimmering  bright 

As  butterfly  or  bird  with  quickest  life. 

The  silent  Eoldaist  has  his  brightness  too, 

But  only  in  his  spangles  and  rosettes. 

His  party-colored  vest  and  crimson  hose 

Are  dulled  with  old  Valencian  dust,  his  eyes 

With  straining  fifty  years  at  gilded  balls 

To  catch  them  dancing,  or  with  brazen  looks 

At  men  and  women  as  he  made  his  jests 

Some  thousand  times  and  watched  to  count  the  pence 

His  wife  was  gathering.    His  olive  face 

Has  an  old  writing  in  it,  characters 

Stamped  deep  by  grins  that  had  no  merriment. 

The  soul's  rude  mark  proclaiming  all  its  blank ; 

As  on  some  faces  that  have  long  grown  old 

In  lifting  tapers  up  to  forms  obscene 

On  ancient  walls  and  chuckling  with  false  zest 

To  please  my  lord,  who  gives  the  larger  fee 

For  that  hard  industry  in  apishness. 

Boldan  would  gladly  never  laugh  again ; 

Pensioned,  he  would  be  grave  as  any  ox. 

And  having  beans  and  crumbs  and  oil  secured 


/ 

32  f 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Would  borrow  no  man's  jokes  forevermore. 

'T  is  harder  now  because  his  wife  is  gone, 

Who  had  quick  feet,  and  danced  to  ravishment 

Of  every  ring  jewelled  with  Spanish  eyes, 

But  died  and  left  this  boy,  lame  from  his  birth, 

And  sad  and  obstinate,  though  when  he  will 

He  sings  God-taught  such  marrow-thrilling  strains 

As  seem  the  very  voice  of  dying  Spring, 

A  flute-like  wail  that  mourns  the  blossoms  gone. 

And  sinks,  and  is  not,  like  their  fragrant  breath, 

With  fine  transition  on  the  trembling  air. 

He  sits  as  if  imprisoned  by  some  fear, 

Motionless,  with  wide  eyes  that  seem  not  made 

For  hungry  glancing  of  a  twelve-yeared  boy 

To  mark  the  living  thing  that  he  could  tease, 

But  for  the  gaze  of  some  primeval  sadness 

Dark  twin  with  light  in  the  creative  ray. 

This  little  Pablo  has  his  spangles  too, 

And  large  rosettes  to  hide  his  poor  left  foot 

Eounded  like  any  hoof  (his  mother  thought 

God  willed  it  so  to  punish  all  her  sins). 

I  said  the  souls  were  five,  —  besides  the  dog. 

But  there  was  still  a  sixth,  with  wrinkled  face, 

Grave  and  disgusted  with  all  merriment 

Not  less  than  Eoldan.    It  is  Annibal, 

The  experienced  monkey  who  performs  the  tricks, 

Jumps  through  the  hoops,  and  carries  round  the  hat. 

Once  full  of  sallies  and  impromptu  feats, 

Now  cautious  not  to  light  on  aught  that 's  new. 

Lest  he  be  whipped  to  do  it  o'er  again 

Prom  A  to  Z,  and  make  the  gentry  laugh : 

A  misanthropic  monkey,  gray  and  grim, 

Bearing  a  lot  that  has  no  remedy 

For  want  of  concert  in  the  monkey  tribe. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


33 


We  see  the  company^  above  their  heads 
The  braided  matting,  golden  as  ripe  corn, 
Stretched  in  a  curving  strip  close  by  the  grapes, 
Elsewhere  rolled  back  to  greet  the  cooler  sky ; 
A  fountain  near,  vase-shapen  and  broad-lipped, 
Where  timorous  birds  alight  with  tiny  feet. 
And  hesitate  and  bend  wise  listening  ears. 
And  fly  away  again  with  undipped  beak. 
On  the  stone  floor  the  juggler^s  heaped-up  goods, 
Carpet  and  hoops,  viol  and  tambourine. 
Where  Annibal  sits  perched  with  brows  severe, 
A  serious  ape  whom  none  take  seriously. 
Obliged  in  this  fooPs  world  to  earn  his  nuts 
By  hard  buffoonery.    We  see  them  all, 
And  hear  their  talk,  —  the  talk  of  Spanish  men, 
With  Southern  intonation,  vowels  turned 
Caressingly  between  the  consonants. 
Persuasive,  willing,  with  such  intervals 
As  music  borrows  from  the  wooing  birds. 
That  plead  with  subtly  curving,  sweet  descent,  — 
And  yet  can  quarrel,  as  these  Spaniards  can. 

JjjAN  (near  the  doorway). 

You  hear  the  trumpet  ?    There 's  old  Eamon's  blast< 
No  bray  but  his  can  shake  the  air  so  well. 
He  takes  his  trumpeting  as  solemnly 
As  angel  charged  to  wake  the  dead ;  thinks  war 
Was  made  for  trumpeters,  and  their  great  art 
Made  solely  for  themselves  who  understand  it. 
His  features  all  have  shaped  themselves  to  blowing. 
And  when  his  trumpet 's  bagged  or  left  at  home 
He  seems  a  chattel  in  a  broker's  booth, 
A  spoutless  watering-can,  a  promise  to  pay 
No  sum  particular.    0  fine  old  Ramon ! 
The  blasts  get  louder  and  the  clattering  hoofs ; 
3 


34 


FOEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


They  crack  the  ear  as  well  as  heaven's  thunder 
For  owls  that  listen  blinking.    There 's  the  banner. 

Host  (^joining  him :  the  others  follow  to  the  door). 

The  Duke  has  finished  reconnoitring,  then  ? 

We  shall  hear  news.    They  say  he  means  a  sally,  — 

Would  strike  El  ZagaPs  Moors  as  they  push  home 

Like  ants  with  booty  heavier  than  themselves ; 

Then,  joined  by  other  nobles  with  their  bands. 

Lay  siege  to  Guadix.    Juan,  you  're  a  bird 

That  nest  within  the  Castle.    What  say  you  ? 

ISTaught,  I  say  naught.    'T  is  but  a  toilsome  game 

To  bet  upon  that  feather  Policy, 

And  guess  where  after  twice  a  hundred  puffs 

'T  will  catch  another  feather  crossing  it : 

Guess  how  the  Pope  will  blow  and  how  the  king ; 

What  force  my  lady's  fan  has ;  how  a  cough 

Seizing  the  Padre's  throat  may  raise  a  gust, 

And  how  the  queen  may  sigh  the  feather  down. 

Such  catching  at  imaginary  threads, 

Such  spinning  twisted  air,  is  not  for  me. 

If  I  should  want  a  game,  I  '11  rather  bet 

On  racing  snails,  two  large,  slow,  lingering  snails,  — 

No  spurring,  equal  weights,  —  a  chance  sublime, 

Nothing  to  guess  at,  pure  uncertainty. 

Here  comes  the  Duke.    They  give  but  feeble  shouts. 

And  some  look  sour. 

Host. 

That  spoils  a  fair  occasion. 
Civility  brings  no  conclusions  with  it. 
And  cheerful  Vivas  make  the  moments  glide 
Instead  of  grating  like  a  rusty  wheel. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


35 


0  they  are  dullards,  kick  because  they  're  stung, 
And  bruise  a  friend  to  show  they  hate  a  wasp. 

Host. 

Best  treat  your  wasp  with  delicate  regard ; 

When  the  right  moment  comes  say,    By  your  leave,'' 

Use  your  heel  —  so  !  and  make  an  end  of  him. 

That 's  if  we  talked  of  wasps  ;  but  our  young  Duke,  — 

Spain  holds  not  a  more  gallant  gentleman. 

Live,  live,  Duke  Silva !    'T  is  a  rare  smile  he  has, 

But  seldom  seen. 

Juan. 
A  true  hidalgo's  smile, 
That  gives  much  favor,  but  beseeches  none. 
His  smile  is  sweetened  by  his  gravity : 
It  comes  like  dawn  upon  Sierra  snows, 
Seeming  more  generous  for  the  coldness  gone ; 
Breaks  from  the  calm,  —  a  sudden  opening  flower 
On  dark  deep  waters :  one  moment  shrouded  close, 
A  mystic  shrine,  the  next  a  full-rayed  star. 
Thrilling,  pulse-quickening  as  a  living  word. 

1  '11  make  a  song  of  that. 

Host. 

Prithee,  not  now. 
You  '11  fall  to  staring  like  a  wooden  saint. 
And  wag  your  head  as  it  were  set  on  wires. 
Here 's  fresh  sherbet.    Sit,  be  good  company. 
{To  Blasco.)  You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  and  cannot  know 
How  our  Duke's  nature  suits  his  princely  frame. 

Blasco. 

Nay,  but  I  marked  his  spurs,  —  chased  cunningly ! 
A  duke  should  know  good  gold  and  silver  plate  j 


36 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Then  he  will  know  the  quality  of  mine. 

I  We  ware  for  tables  and  for  altars  too, 

Our  Lady  in  all  sizes,  crosses,  bells : 

He  '11  need  such  weapons  full  as  much  as  swords 

If  he  would  capture  any  Moorish  town. 

For,  let  me  tell  you,  when  a  mosque  is  cleansed  .... 

The  demons  fly  so  thick  from  sound  of  bells 
And  smell  of  incense,  you  may  see  the  air 
Streaked  with  them  as  with  smoke.    Why,  they  are 
spirits : 

You  may  well  think  how  crowded  they  must  be 
To  make  a  sort  of  haze. 

Blasco. 

I  knew  not  that. 
Still,  they  're  of  smoky  nature,  demons  are ; 
And  since  you  say  so,  —  well,  it  proves  the  more 
The  need  of  bells  and  censers.    Ay,  your  Duke 
Sat  well :  a  true  hidalgo.    I  can  judge,  — 
Of  harness  specially.    I  saw  the  camp, 
The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga. 
'T  was  like  the  court  of  heaven,  —  such  liveries  ! 
And  torches  carried  by  the  score  at  night 
Before  the  nobles.    Sirs,  I  made  a  dish 
To  set  an  emerald  in  would  fit  a  crown, 
For  Don  Alonzo,  lord  of  Aguilar. 
Your  Duke 's  no  whit  behind  him  in  his  mien 
Or  harness  either.    But  you  seem  to  say 
The  people  love  him  not. 

Host. 

They  We  naught  against  him. 
But  certain  winds  will  make  men's  temper  bad. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


37 


When  the  Solano  blows  hot  venomed  breath, 
It  acts  upon  men^s  knives  :  steel  takes  to  stabbing 
Which  else,  with  cooler  winds,  were  honest  steel, 
Cutting  but  garlick.    There 's  a  wind  just  now 
Blows  right  from  Seville  — 

Blasco. 

Ay,  you  mean  the  wind  .  .  .  . 
Yes,  yes,  a  wind  that 's  rather  hot .... 

Host. 

With  fagots. 

Juan. 

A  wind  that  suits  not  with  our  townsmen's  blood. 

Abram,  't  is  said,  objected  to  be  scorched, 

And,  as  the  learned  Arabs  vouch,  he  gave 

The  antipathy  in  full  to  Ishmael. 

'T  is  true,  these  patriarchs  had  their  oddities. 

Blasco. 

Their  oddities  ?    I 'm  of  their  mind,  I  know. 

Though,  as  to  Abraham  and  Ishmael, 

I 'm  an  old  Christian,  and  owe  naught  to  them 

Or  any  J ew  among  them.    But  I  know 

We  made  a  stir  in  Saragossa  —  we : 

The  men  of  Aragon  ring  hard,  —  true  metal. 

Sirs,  I 'm  no  friend  to  heresy,  but  then 

A  Christian's  money  is  not  safe.    As  how  ? 

A  lapsing  Jew  or  any  heretic 

May  owe  me  twenty  ounces  :  suddenly 

He 's  prisoned,  suffers  penalties,  —  't  is  well : 

If  men  will  not  believe,  ^t  is  good  to  make  them, 

But  let  the  penalties  fall  on  them  alone. 

The  J  ew  is  stripped,  his  goods  are  confiscate ; 

Now,  where,  I  pray  you,  go  my  twenty  ounces  ? 


88 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


God  knows,  and  perhaps  the  King  may,  but  not  I 
And  more,  my  son  may  lose  his  young  wife's  dower 
Because 't  was  promised  since  her  father's  soul 
Pell  to  wrong  thinking.    How  was  I  to  know  ? 
I  could  but  use  my  sense  and  cross  myself. 
Christian  is  Christian,  —  I  give  in,  —  but  still 
Taxing  is  taxing,  though  you  call  it  holy. 
We  Saragossans  liked  not  this  new  tax 
They  call  the  —  nonsense,  I 'm  from  Aragon ! 
I  speak  too  bluntly.    But,  for  Holy  Church, 
No  man  believes  more. 

Host. 
ISTay,  sir,  never  fear. 
Good  Master  Eoldan  here  is  no  delator. 

R  OLD  AN  {starting  from  a  reverie). 
You  speak  to  me,  sirs  ?    I  perform  to-night  — 
The  Pla9a  Santiago.    Twenty  tricks, 
All  different.    I  dance,  too.    And  the  boy 
Sings  like  a  bird.    I  crave  your  patronage. 

Blasco. 

Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir.    In  travelling 
I  take  a  little  freedom,  and  am  gay. 
You  marked  not  what  I  said  just  now  ? 

Eoldan. 

I?  no. 

I  pray  your  pardon.    I  Ve  a  twinging  knee , 
That  makes  it  hard  to  listen.    You  were  saying  ? 

Blasco. 

Nay,  it  was  naught.  (Aside  to  Host.)   Is  it  his  deepness  ? 
Host. 

No. 

He 's  deep  in  nothing  but  his  poverty. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Blasco. 

But 't  was  his  poverty  that  made  me  think  .  .  • . 
Host. 

His  piety  might  wish  to  keep  the  feasts 
As  well  as  fasts.    No  fear ;  he  hears  not. 

Blasco. 

Good. 

I  speak  my  mind  about  the  penalties, 

But,  look  you,  I  ^m  against  assassination. 

You  know  my  meaning  —  Master  Arbues, 

The  grand  Inquisitor  in  Aragon. 

I  knew  naught,  —  paid  no  copper  towards  the  deed. 

But  I  was  there,  at  prayers,  within  the  church. 

How  could  I  help  it  ?    Why,  the  saints  were  there. 

And  looked  straight  on  above  the  altars.    I .  .  .  . 

JuA^^-. 

Looked  carefully  another  way. 

Blasco. 

Why,  at  my  beads. 
'T  was  after  midnight,  and  the  canons  all 
Were  chanting  matins.    I  was  not  in  church 
To  gape  and  stare.    I  saw  the  martyr  kneel : 
I  never  liked  the  look  of  him  alive,  — 
He  was  no  martyr  then.    I  thought  he  made 
An  ugly  shadow  as  he  crept  athwart 
The  bands  of  light,  then  passed  within  the  gloom 
By  the  broad  pillar.    'T  was  in  our  great  Seo, 
At  Saragossa.    The  pillars  tower  so  large 
You  cross  yourself  to  see  them,  lest  white  Death 
Should  hide  behind  their  dark.    And  so  it  was. 


40  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


I  looked  away  again  and  told  my  beads 

Unthinkingly ;  but  still  a  man  has  ears  ; 

And  right  across  the  chanting  came  a  sound 

As  if  a  tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar 

Of  some  great  torrent.    So  it  seemed  to  me ; 

For  when  you  listen  long  and  shut  your  eyes 

Small  sounds  get  thunderous.    And  he 'd  a  shell 

Like  any  lobster :  a  good  iron  suit 

From  top  to  toe  beneath  the  innocent  serge. 

That  made  the  telltale  sound.    But  then  came  shrieks. 

The  chanting  stopped  and  turned  to  rushing  feet, 

And  in  the  midst  lay  Master  Arbues, 

Felled  like  an  ox.    'T  was  wicked  butchery. 

Some  honest  men  had  hoped  it  would  have  scared 

The  Inquisition  out  of  Aragon. 

^T  was  money  thrown  away,  —  I  would  say,  crime,  — 
Clean  thrown  away. 

Host. 

That  was  a  pity  now. 
Next  to  a  missing  thrust,  what  irks  me  most 
Is  a  neat  well-aimed  stroke  that  kills  your  man, 
Yet  ends  in  mischief,  —  as  in  Aragon. 
It  was  a  lesson  to  our  people  here. 
Else  there 's  a  monk  within  our  city  walls, 
A  holy,  high-born,  stern  Dominican, 
They  might  have  made  the  great  mistake  to  kilL 

Blasco. 

What !  is  he  ?  

Host. 

Yes  ;  a  Master  Arbues 
Of  finer  quality.    The  Prior  here 
And  uncle  to  our  Duke. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


41 


Blasco. 

He  will  want  plate  : 

A  holy  pillar  or  a  crucifix. 

But,  did  you  say,  lie  was  like  Arbues  ? 

Juan. 

As  a  black  eagle  with  gold  beak  and  claws 

Is  like  a  raven.    Even  in  his  cowl, 

Covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  Prior  is  known 

From  all  the  black  herd  round.    When  he  uncovers 

And  stands  white-frocked,  with  ivory  face,  his  eyes 

Black-gleaming,  black  his  coronet  of  hair 

Like  shredded  jasper,  he  seems  less  a  man 

With  struggling  aims  than  pure  incarnate  Will, 

Fit  to  subdue  rebellious  nations,  nay. 

That  human  flesh  he  breathes  in,  charged  with  passion 

Which  quivers  in  his  nostril  and  his  lip. 

But  disciplined  by  long-indwelling  will 

To  silent  labor  in  the  yoke  of  law. 

A  truce  to  thy  comparisons,  Lorenzo  ! 

Thine  is  no  subtle  nose  for  difference ; 

^T  is  dulled  by  feigning  and  civility. 

Host. 

Pooh,  thou  'rt  a  poet,  crazed  with  finding  words 

May  stick  to  things  and  seem  like  qualities. 

No  pebble  is  a  pebble  in  thy  hands : 

'T  is  a  moon  out  of  work,  a  barren  egg. 

Or  twenty  things  that  no  man  sees  but  thee. 

Our  father  Isidor 's  —  a  living  saint. 

And  that  is  heresy,  some  townsmen  think : 

Saints  should  be  dead,  according  to  the  Church. 

My  mind  is  this  :  the  Father  is  so  holy  * 

'T  were  sin  to  wish  his  soul  detained  from  bliss. 

Easy  translation  to  the  realms  above, 


42  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  shortest  journey  to  the  seventh  heaven, 
Is  what  I     never  grudge  him. 

Blasco. 

Piously  said. 
Look  you,  I dutiful,  obey  the  Church 
When  there 's  no  help  for  it :  I  mean  to  say, 
When  Pope  and  Bishop  and  all  customers 
Order  alike.    But  there  be  bishops  now, 
And  were  aforetime,  who  have  held  it  wrong, 
This  hurry  to  convert  the  J ews.    As,  how  ? 
Your  Jew  pays  tribute  to  the  bishop,  say. 
That 's  good,  and  must  please  God,  to  see  the  Church 
Maintained  in  ways  that  ease  the  Christian's  putse. 
Convert  the  Jew,  and  where 's  the  tribute,  pray  ? 
He  lapses,  too :  't  is  slippery  work,  conversion : 
And  then  the  holy  taxing  carries  off 
His  money  at  one  sweep.    No  tribute  more  ! 
He 's  penitent  or  burnt,  and  there 's  an  end. 
Now  guess  which  pleases  God  .... 

Juan. 

Wliether  he  likes 
A  well-burnt  Jew  or  well-fed  bishop  best. 

[While  Juan  put  this  problem  theologic 
Entered,  with  resonant  step,  another  guest,  — 
A  soldier :  all  his  keenness  in  his  sword, 
His  eloquence  in  scars  upon  his  cheek. 
His  virtue  in  much  slaying  of  the  Moor : 
With  brow  well-creased  in  horizontal  folds 
To  save  the  space,  as  having  naught  to  do : 
Lips  prone  to  whistle  whisperingly,  —  no  tune. 
But  trotting  rhythm  :  meditative  eyes. 
Most  often  fixed  upon  his  legs  and  spurs : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


43 


Invited  much,  and  held  good  company : 
Styled  Captain  Lopez.] 

Lopez. 

At  your  service,  sirs. 

Juan. 

Ha,  Lopez  ?    Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald's.    What  news  of  the  wars  ? 

Lopez. 

Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 

Juan. 

Then  spit  it  forth. 

Host. 

Sit,  Captain :  here  ^s  a  cup, 
Fresh-filled.    What  news  ? 

Lopez. 

'T  is  bad.    We  make  no  sally : 
We  sit  still  here  and  wait  whatever  the  Moor 
Shall  please  to  do. 

Host. 

Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 
Lopez. 

Glad,  will  they  be  ?    But  I 'm  not  glad,  not  I, 
Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 
But  the  Duke's  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege 
Instead  of  laying  one.    Therefore  —  meantime  — 
He  will  be  married  straightway. 


44 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Host. 

Ila,  ha,  ha ! 

Thy  speech  is  like  an  hourglass ;  turn  it  down 
The  other  way,  't  will  stand  as  well,  and  say 
The  Duke  will  wed,  therefore  he  waits  a  siege. 
But  what  say  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior  ? 
The  holy  uncle  and  the  fiery  Don  ? 

Lopez. 

Oh  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad 

As  thick  as  nuts  overturned.    No  man  need  lack. 

Some  say,  't  was  letters  changed  the  Duke's  intent : 

From  Malaga,  says  Bias.    From  Eome,  says  Quintin. 

From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 

Some  say,  't  is  all  a  pretext,  —  say,  the  Duke 

Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt. 

Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk : 

'T  was  Don  Diego  said  that,  —  so  says  Bias ; 

Last  week,  he  said  .... 

Oh  do  without  the  "  said  "  ! 
Open  thy  mouth  and  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 
I  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  in  the  selfsame  spot 
As  hear  such  iteration  without  rule, 
Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

Lopez. 

Santiago  !  Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  please. 
I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 
I  can  be  silent,  I. 

Blasco. 
E'ay,  sir,  speak  on ! 
I  like  your  matter  well.    I  deal  in  plate. 
This  wedding  touches  me.    Who  is  the  bride  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


45 


Lopez. 

One  that  some  say  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 

One  that  his  mother  reared  —  God  rest  her  soul !  — 

Duchess  Diana,  —  she  who  died  last  year. 

A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 

Her  name  —  the  Duchess  gave  it  —  is  Fedalma. 

No  harm  in  that.    But  the  Duke  stoops,  they  say, 

In  wedding  her.    And  that  ^s  the  simple  truth. 

Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion : 
The  simple  truth  of  asses  who  believe 
Their  thistle  is  the  very  best  of  food. 
Fie,  Lopez,  thou  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honor  to  the  maid  he  loves  ! 
He  stoops  alone  when  he  dishonors  her. 

Lopez. 

Nay,  I  said  naught  against  her. 

Better  not. 

Else  I  would  challenge  thee  to  fight  with  wits. 
And  spear  thee  through  and  through  ere  thou  couldst 
draw 

The  bluntest  word.    Yes,  yes,  consult  thy  spurs  : 
Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  tell  thee 
That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence 
As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blue. 
Don  Silva's  heart  beats  to  a  chivalric  tune : 
He  wills  no  highest-born  Castilian  dame, 
Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 
More  sacred  than  Fedalma.    He  enshrines 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Her  virgin  image  for  the  general  worship 

And  for  his  own^  —  will  guard  her  from  the  world, 

Nay,  his  prof aner  self,  lest  he  should  lose 

The  place  of  his  religion.    He  does  well. 

Naught  can  come  closer  to  the  poets'  strain. 

Host. 

Or  further  from  their  practice,  Juan,  eh  ? 
If  thou  'rt  a  specimen  ? 

Wrong,  my  Lorenzo ! 
Touching  Fedalma  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

Lopez. 

By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock  ?    Thou  meanest  that  ? 

J  U  AN. 

Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill, 
Growing  descriptive ;  't  is  unnatural. 
I  mean,  Don  Silva's  love  expects  reward. 
Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come  ;  but  the  poor  poet 
Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  find 
A  heaven  save  in  his  worship.    He  adores 
The  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness'  sake, 
Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him, 
Because 't  is  lovingness,  as  beggars  joy, 
Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walls, 
To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 
There 's  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 
Worships  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love 
That  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


47 


And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds 
Barefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 
Her  ragged  garment's  edge,  and  only  ask 
For  leave  to  be  her  slave.    Digest  that,  friend, 
Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 
To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

Lopez. 

I? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her  ;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword  and  peddle  not  in  thinking. 
^T  is  Father  Marcos  says  she  '11  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water  ;  says  her  blood 
Is  infidel ;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 

Juan, 

Tush! 

[Now  Juan  —  who  by  snatches  touched  his  lute 

With  soft  arpeggio,  like  a  whispered  dream 

Of  sleeping  music,  while  he  spoke  of  love,  — 

In  jesting  anger  at  the  soldier's  talk 

Thrummed  loud  and  fast,  then  faster  and  more  loud, 

Till,  as  he  answered,  "  Tush ! "  he  struck  a  chord 

Sudden  as  whip-crack  close  by  Lopez'  ear. 

Mine  host  and  Blasco  smiled,  the  mastiff  barked, 

Eoldan  looked  up  and  Annibal  looked  down, 

Cautiously  neutral  in  so  new  a  case ; 

The  boy  raised  longing,  listening  eyes  that  seemed 

An  exiled  spirit's  waiting  in  strained  hope 

Of  voices  coming  from  the  distant  land. 

But  Lopez  bore  the  assault  like  any  rock : 

That  was  not  what  he  drew  his  sword  at  —  he  I 

He  spoke  with  neck  erect.] 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lopez. 

If  that 's  a  hint 
The  company  should  ask  thee  for  a  song, 
Sing,  then ! 

Host. 

Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 
Something  brand  new.    Thou  ^rt  wont  to  make  my  ear 
A  test  of  novelties.    Hast  thou  aught  fresh  ? 

As  fresh  as  rain-drops.    Here 's  a  Cancion 
Springs  like  a  tiny  mushroom  delicate 
Out  of  the  priest's  foul  scandal  of  Fedalma. 

[He  preluded  with  questioning  intervals, 
Eising,  then  falling  just  a  semitone, 
In  minor  cadence,  —  sound  with  poised  wing 
Hovering  and  quivering  towards  the  needed  fall. 
Then  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  willing  air 
With  masculine  vibration  sang  this  song. 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 
Say  J  0  song  I 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  ? 

Dark  the  night,  with  breath  all  fiowWs, 
And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 
With  ravishment  the  listening  hours  : 
Whisperings,  wooings, 
Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 
In  low-toned  rhythm  that  lovers  ouching  stills. 
Dark  the  night, 
Yet  is  she  bright, 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star, 
Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  lov6y 
From  some  unknown  afar. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


49 


0  radiant  Dark  I  0  darkly  fostered  ray  ! 
Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day, 

While  Juan  sang,  all  round  the  tavern  court 

Gathered  a  constellation  of  black  eyes. 

Pat  Lola  leaned  upon  the  balcony 

With  arms  that  might  have  pillowed  Hercules 

(Who  built,  't  is  known,  the  mightiest  Spanish  towns)  ] 

Thin  Alda's  face,  sad  as  a  wasted  passion, 

Leaned  o'er  the  nodding  baby's ;  'twixt  the  rails 

The  little  Pepe  showed  his  two  black  beads. 

His  fiat-ringed  hair  and  small  Semitic  nose 

Complete  and  tiny  as  a  new-born  minnow ; 

Patting  his  head  and  holding  in  her  arms 

The  baby  senior,  stood  Lorenzo's  wife 

All  negligent,  her  kerchief  discomposed 

By  little  clutches,  woman's  coquetry 

Quite  turned  to  mother's  cares  and  sweet  content. 

These  on  the  balcony,  while  at  the  door 

Gazed  the  lank  boys  and  lazy-shouldered  men. 

^T  is  likely  too  the  rats  and  insects  peeped. 

Being  southern  Spanish  ready  for  a  lounge. 

The  singer  smiled,  as  doubtless  Orpheus  smiled, 

To  see  the  animals  both  great  and  small. 

The  mountainous  elephant  and  scampering  mouse, 

Held  by  the  ears  in  decent  audience ; 

Then,  when  mine  host  desired  the  strain  once  more, 

He  fell  to  preluding  with  rhythmic  change 

Of  notes  recurrent,  soft  as  pattering  drops 

That  fall  from  off  the  eaves  in  faery  dance 

When  clouds  are  breaking ;  till  at  measured  pause 

He  struck,  in  rare  responsive  chords,  a  refrain.] 

Host. 

Come,  then,  a  gayer  romaunt,  if  thou  wilt  : 
I  quarrel  not  with  change.    What  say  you,  Captain  ? 
4 


50 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lopez. 

All one  to  me.    I  note  no  change  of  tune, 
Not  I,  save  in  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs, 
Or  in  the  drums  and  trumpets  when  they  call 
To  action  or  retreat.    I  ne'er  could  see 
The  good  of  singing. 

Blasco. 

Why,  it  passes  time,  — 
Saves  you  from  getting  over-wise  :  that 's  good. 
For,  look  you,  fools  are  merry  here  below, 
Yet  they  will  go  to  heaven  all  the  same. 
Having  the  sacraments ;  and,  look  you,  heaven 
Is  a  long  holiday,  and  solid  men. 
Used  to  much  business,  might  be  ill  at  ease 
Not  liking  play.    And  so  in  travelling 
I  shape  myself  betimes  to  idleness 
And  take  fools'  pleasures  .... 

Host. 

Hark,  the  song  begins ! 

Juan  (sings). 

Maiden^  crowned  with  glossy  blackness, 

Lithe  as  panther  forest-roaming , 
Long-armed  naiad,  when  she  dances, 

On  a  stream  of  ether  floating,  — 
Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Form  all  curves  like  softness  drifted, 
Wave-kissed  marble  roundly  dimpling, 

Far-off  music  slowly  winged, 

Gently  rising,  gently  sinking,  — 
Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Pure  as  rain-tear  on  a  rose-leaf, 

Cloud  high-horn  in  noonday  spotless, 

Sudden  perfect  as  the  dew-head, 
Gem  of  earth  and  shy  hegotten,  — 
Bright,  0  hright  Fedalma  I 

Beauty  has  no  mortal  father. 
Holy  light  her  form  engendered 

Out  of  tremor,  yearning,  gladness, 
Fresage  sweet  and  joy  rememhered,  — 
Child  of  Light,  Fedalma  I 

Blasco. 

Faith,  a  good  song,  sung  to  a  stirring  tune. 
I  like  the  words  returning  in  a  round ; 
It  gives  a  sort  of  sense.    Another  such ! 

E  OLD  AN  (rising). 

Sirs,  you  will  hear  my  boy.    'T  is  very  hard 
When  gentles  sing  for  naught  to  all  the  town. 
How  can  a  poor  man  live  ?    And  now 't  is  time 
I  go  to  the  Pla9a,  —  who  will  give  me  pence 
When  he  can  hear  hidalgos  and  give  naught  ? 

Juan. 

True,  friend.    Be  pacified.    I  '11  sing  no  more. 
Go  thou,  and  we  will  follow.    ISTever  fear. 
My  voice  is  common  as  the  ivy  leaves. 
Plucked  in  all  seasons,  —  bears  no  price  ;  the  boy' 
Is  like  the  almond  blossoms.    Ah,  he 's  lame  ! 

Host. 

Load  him  not  heavily.  Here,  Pedro  !  help. 
Go  with  them  to  the  Pla9a,  take  the  hoops. 
The  sights  will  pay  thee. 


62 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Blasco. 

I  ^11  be  there  anon, 
And  set  the  fashion  with  a  good  white  coin. 
But  let  us  see  as  well  as  hear. 

Host. 

Ay,  prithee. 

Some  tricks,  a  dance. 

Blasco. 

Yes,  't  is  more  rational. 

EoLDAisr  (turning  round  with  the  bundle  and  monkey  on 
his  shoulders). 

You  shall  see  all,  sirs.    There 's  no  man  in  Spain 
Knows  his  art  better.    I  Ve  a  twinging  knee 
Oft  hinders  dancing,  and  the  boy  is  lame. 
But  no  man's  monkey  has  more  tricks  than  mine. 

[At  this  high  praise  the  gloomy  Annibal, 

Mournful  professor  of  high  drollery, 

Seemed  to  look  gloomier,  and  the  little  troop 

Went  slowly  out,  escorted  from  the  door 

By  all  the  idlers.    From  the  balcony 

Slowly  subsided  the  black  radiance 

Of  agate  eyes,  and  broke  in  chattering  sounds. 

Coaxings  and  trampings,  and  the  small  hoarse  squeak 

Of  Pepe's  reed.    And  our  group  talked  again.] 

Host. 

I  '11  get  this  juggler,  if  he  quits  him  well. 

An  audience  here  as  choice  as  can  be  lured. 

For  me,  when  a  poor  devil  does  his  best, 

'T  is  my  delight  to  soothe  his  soul  with  praise. 

What  though  the  best  be  bad  ?  remains  the  good 

Of  throwing  food  to  a  lean  hungry  dog. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


53 


I 'd  give  up  the  best  jugglery  in  life 

To  see  a  miserable  juggler  pleased. 

But  that 's  my  humor.    Crowds  are  malcontent, 

And  cruel  as  the  Holy  ....  Shall  we  go  ? 

All  of  us  now  together  ? 

Lopez. 

Well,  not  L 
I  may  be  there  anon,  but  first  I  go 
To  the  lower  prison.    There  is  strict  command 
That  all  our  Gypsy  prisoners  shall  to-night 
Be  lodged  within  the  fort.    They  Ve  forged  enough 
Of  balls  and  bullets,  — used  up  all  the  metal. 
At  morn  to-morrow  they  must  carry  stones 
Up  the  south  tower.    'T  is  a  fine  stalwart  band, 
Fit  for  the  hardest  tasks.    Some  say,  the  queen 
Would  have  the  Gypsies  banished  with  the  Jews. 
Some  say,  't  were  better  harness  them  for  work. 
They 'd  feed  on  any  filth  and  save  the  Spaniard. 
Some  say  —  but  I  must  go.    'T  will  soon  be  time 
To  head  the  escort.    We  shall  meet  again. 

Blasco. 

Go,  sir,  with  God  (exit  Lopez).    A  very  proper  man, 

And  soldierly.    But,  for  this  banishment 

Some  men  are  hot  on,  it  ill  pleases  me. 

The  Jews,  now  (sirs,  if  any  Christian  here 

Had  Jews  for  ancestors,  I  blame  him  not ; 

We  cannot  all  be  Goths  of  Aragon),  — 

Jews  are  not  fit  for  heaven,  but  on  earth 

They  are  most  useful.    'T  is  the  same  with  mules. 

Horses,  or  oxen,  or  with  any  pig 

Except  Saint  Anthony's.    They  are  useful  here 

(The  J ews,  I  mean)  though  they  may  go  to  hell. 

And,  look  you,  useful  sins,  — why  Providence 


54  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Sends  J ews  to  do  'em^  saving  Christian  souls. 

The  very  Gypsies,  curbed  and  harnessed  well, 

Would  make  draught  cattle,  feed  on  vermin  too, 

Cost  less  than  grazing  brutes,  and  turn  bad  food 

To  handsome  carcasses ;  sweat  at  the  forge 

For  little  wages,  and  well  drilled  and  flogged 

Might  work  like  slaves,  some  Spaniards  looking  on. 

I  deal  in  plate,  and  am  no  priest  to  say 

What  God  may  mean,  save  when  he  means  plain  sense ; 

But  when  he  sent  the  Gypsies  wandering 

In  punishment  because  they  sheltered  not 

Our  Lady  and  Saint  J oseph  (and  no  doubt 

Stole  the  small  ass  they  fled  with  into  Egypt), 

Why  send  them  here  ?    ^T  is  plain  he  saw  the  use 

They  ^d  be  to  Spaniards.    Shall  we  banish  them, 

And  tell  God  we  know  better  ?    'T  is  a  sin. 

They  talk  of  vermin  ;  but,  sirs,  vermin  large 

Were  made  to  eat  the  small,  or  else  to  eat 

The  noxious  rubbish,  and  picked  Gypsy  men 

Might  serve  in  war  to  climb,  be  killed,  and  fall, 

To  make  an  easy  ladder.    Once  I  saw 

A  Gypsy  sorcerer,  at  a  spring  and  grasp, 

Kill  one  who  came  to  seize  him :  talk  of  strength ! 

Nay,  swiftness  too,  for  while  we  crossed  ourselves 

He  vanished  like,  —  say,  like  .... 

Juan. 

A  swift  black  snake. 
Or  like  a  living  arrow  fledged  with  will. 

Blasco. 
Why,  did  you  see  him,  pray  ? 

Juan. 

Not  then,  but  now, 
As  painters  see  the  many  in  the  one. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  55 

We  have  a  Gypsy  in  Bedmar  whose  frame 
Nature  compacted  with  such  fine  selection, 

would  yield  a  dozen  types  :  all  Spanish  knights, 
From  him  who  slew  Eolando  at  the  pass 
Up  to  the  mighty  Cid ;  all  deities, 
Thronging  Olympus  in  fine  attitudes ; 
Or  all  hell's  heroes  whom  the  poet  saw 
Tremble  like  lions,  writhe  like  demigods. 

Host. 

Pause  not  yet,  Juan,  — -more  hyperbole  ! 
Shoot  upward  still  and  flare  in  meteors 
Before  thou  sink  to  earth  in  dull  brown  fact. 

Blasco. 

Nay,  give  me  fact,  high  shooting  suits  not  me. 
I  never  stare  to  look  for  soaring  larks. 
What  is  this  Gypsy  ? 

Host. 

Chieftain  of  a  band. 
The  Moor's  allies,  whom  full  a  month  ago 
Our  Duke  surprised  and  brought  as  captives  home. 
He  needed  smiths,  and  doubtless  the  brave  Moor 
Has  missed  some  useful  scouts  and  archers  too. 
Juan's  fantastic  pleasure  is  to  watch 
These  Gypsies  forging,  and  to  hold  discourse 
With  this  great  chief,  whom  he  transforms  at  will 
To  sage  or  warrior,  and  like  the  sun 
Plays  daily  at  fallacious  alchemy, 
Turns  sand  to  gold  and  dewy  spider-webs 
To  myriad  rainbows.    Still  the  sand  is  sand, 
And  still  in  sober  shade  you  see  the  web. 
'T  is  so,  I  '11  wager,  with  his  Gypsy  chief,  — 
A  piece  of  stalwart  cunning,  nothing  more. 


66  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


JUAK. 

No  !    My  invention  had  been  all  too  poor 

To  frame  this  Zarca  as  I  saw  him  first. 

'T  was  when  they  stripped  him.    In  his  chieftain's  gear^ 

Amidst  his  men  he  seemed  a  royal  barb 

Followed  by  wild-maned  Andalusian  colts. 

He  had  a  necklace  of  a  strange  device 

In  finest  gold  of  unknown  workmanship, 

But  delicate  as  Moorish^  fit  to  kiss 

Fedalma's  neck,  and  play  in  shadows  there. 

He  wore  fine  mail,  a  rich-wrought  sword  and  belt, 

And  on  his  surcoat  black  a  broidered  torch, 

A  pine-branch  flaming,  grasped  by  two  dark  hands. 

But  when  they  stripped  him  of  his  ornaments 

It  was  the  bawbles  lost  their  grace,  not  he. 

His  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostril,  all  inspired 

With  scorn  that  mastered  utterance  of  scorn. 

With  power  to  check  all  rage  until  it  turned 

To  ordered  force,  unleashed  on  chosen  prey,  — 

It  seemed  the  soul  within  him  made  his  limbs 

And  made  them  grand.    The  bawbles  were  well  gone. 

He  stood  the  more  a  king,  when  bared  to  man. 

Blasco. 

Maybe.    But  nakedness  is  bad  for  trade. 
And  is  not  decent.    Well-wrought  metal,  sir, 
Is  not  a  bawble.    Had  you  seen  the  camp, 
The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 
Ponce  de  Leon  and  the  other  dukes, 
The  king  himself  and  all  his  thousand  knights 
For  body-guard,  't  would  not  have  left  you  breath 
To  praise  a  Gypsy  thus.    A  man 's  a  man  ; 
But  when  you  see  a  king,  you  see  the  work 
Of  many  thousand  men.    King  Ferdinand 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Bears  a  fine  presence,  and  hath  proper  limbs  ; 
But  what  though  he  were  shrunken  as  a  relic  ? 
You 'd  see  the  gold  and  gems  that  cased  him  o'er, 
And  all  the  pages  round  him  in  brocade, 
And  all  the  lords,  themselves  a  sort  of  kings, 
Doing  him  reverence.    That  strikes  an  awe 
Into  a  common  man,  —  especially 
A  judge  of  plate. 

Host. 

Faith,  very  wisely  said. 
Purge  thy  speech,  Juan.    It  is  over-full 
Of  this  same  Gypsy.    Praise  the  Catholic  King. 
And  come  now,  let  us  see  the  juggler's  skill. 


The  Pla^a  Santiago, 

^T  is  daylight  still,  but  now  the  golden  cross 
Uplifted  by  the  angel  on  the  dome 
Stands  rayless  in  calm  color  clear-defined 
Against  the  northern  blue  ;  from  turrets  high 
The  flitting  splendor  sinks  with  folded  wing 
Dark-hid  till  morning,  and  the  battlements 
Wear  soft  relenting  whiteness  mellowed  o'er 
By  summers  generous  and  winters  bland. 
Now  in  the  east  the  distance  casts  its  veil, 
And  gazes  with  a  deepening  earnestness. 
The  old  rain-fretted  mountains  in  their  robes 
Of  shadow-broken  gray  ;  the  rounded  hills 
Eeddened  with  blood  of  Titans,  whose  huge  limbs, 
Entombed  within,  feed  full  the  hardy  flesh ' 
Of  cactus  green  and  blue,  broad-sworded  aloes ; 
The  cypress  soaring  black  above  the  lines 
Of  white  court-walls  ;  the  jointed  sugar-canes 


58  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Pale-golden  with  their  feathers  motionless 

In  the  warm  quiet ;  —  all  thought-teaching  form 

Utters  itself  in  firm  unshimmering  hues. 

For  the  great  rock  has  screened  the  westering  sun 

That  still  on  plains  beyond  streams  vaporous  gold 

Among  the  branches  ;  and  within  Bedmar 

Has  come  the  time  of  sweet  serenity 

When  color  glows  unglittering,  and  the  soul 

Of  visible  things  shows  silent  happiness, 

As  that  of  lovers  trusting  though  apart. 

The  ripe-cheeked  fruits,  the  crimson-petalled  flowers ; 

The  winged  life  that  pausing  seems  a  gem 

Cunningly  carven  on  the  dark  green  leaf  5 

The  face  of  man  with  hues  supremely  blent 

To  difference  fine  as  of  a  voice  'mid  sounds :  — 

Each  lovely  light-dipped  thing  seems  to  emerge 

Flushed  gravely  from  baptismal  sacrament. 

All  beauteous  existence  rests,  yet  wakes, 

Lies  still,  yet  conscious,  with  clear  open  eyes 

And  gentle  breath  and  mild  suffused  joy. 

'T  is  day,  but  day  that  falls  like  melody 

Repeated  on  a  string  with  graver  tones,  — 

Tones  such  as  linger  in  a  long  farewell. 

The  Plaga  widens  in  the  passive  air,  — 

The  Plaga  Santiago,  where  the  church, 

A  mosque  converted,  shows  an  eyeless  face 

Red-checkered,  faded,  doing  penance  still,  — 

Bearing  with  Moorish  arch  the  imaged  saint, 

Apostle,  baron,  Spanish  warrior. 

Whose  charger's  hoofs  trample  the  turbaned  dead, 

Whose  banner  with  the  Cross,  the  bloody  sword, 

Plashes  athwart  the  Moslem's  glazing  eye, 

And  mocks  his  trust  in  Allah  who  forsakes. 

Up  to  the  church  the  Pla9a  gently  slopes, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


59 


In  shape  most  like  the  pious  pahner's  shell, 

Girdled  with  low  white  houses  ;  high  above 

Tower  the  strong  fortress  and  sharp-angled  wall 

And  well-flanked  castle  gate.    From  o'er  the  roofs, 

And  from  the  shadowed  patios  cool,  there  spreads 

The  breath  of  flowers  and  aromatic  leaves 

Soothing  the  sense  with  bliss  indefinite,  — 

A  baseless  hope,  a  glad  presentiment. 

That  curves  the  lip  more  softly,  fills  the  eye 

With  more  indulgent  beam.    And  so  it  soothes, 

So  gently  sways  the  pulses  of  the  crowd 

Who  make  a  zone  about  the  central  spot 

Chosen  by  Eoldan  for  his  theatre. 

Maids  with  arched  eyebrows,  delicate-pencilled,  dark. 

Fold  their  round  arms  below  the  kerchief  full ; 

Men  shoulder  little  girls  ;  and  grandames  gray. 

But  muscular  still,  hold  babies  on  their  arms  ; 

While  mothers  keep  the  stout-legged  boys  in  front 

Against  their  skirts,  as  old  Greek  pictures  show 

The  Glorious  Mother  with  the  Boy  divine. 

Youths  keep  the  places  for  themselves,  and  roll 

Large  lazy  eyes,  and  call  recumbent  dogs 

(For  reasons  deep  below  the  reach  of  thought). 

The  old  men  cough  with  purpose,  wish  to  hint 

Wisdom  within  that  cheapens  jugglery. 

Maintain  a  neutral  air,  and  knit  their  brows 

In  observation.    None  are  quarrelsome, 

Noisy,  or  very  merry  ;  for  their  blood 

Moves  slowly  into  fervor, — they  rejoice 

Like  those  dark  birds  that  sweep  with  heavy  wing, 

Cheering  their  mates  with  melancholy  cries. 

But  now  the  gilded  balls  begin  to  play 

In  rhythmic  numbers,  ruled  by  practice  fine 

Of  eye  and  muscle  :  all  the  juggler's  form 


60 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Consents  harmonious  in  swift-gliding  change, 
Easily  forward  stretched  or  backward  bent 
With  lightest  step  and  movement  circular 
Round  a  fixed  point :  't  is  not  the  old  Eoldan  now, 
The  dull,  hard,  weary,  miserable  man, 
The  soul  all  parched  to  languid  appetite 
And  memory  of  desire  :  't  is  wondrous  force 
That  moves  in  combination  multiform 
Towards  conscious  ends  :  't  is  Roldan  glorious, 
Holding  all  eyes  like  any  meteor. 
King  of  the  moment  save  when  Annibal 
Divides  the  scene  and  plays  the  comic  part. 
Gazing  with  blinking  glances  up  and  down, 
Dancing  and  throwing  naught  and  catching  it, 
With  mimicry  as  merry  as  the  tasks 
Of  penance-working  shades  in  Tartarus. 

Pablo  stands  passive,  and  a  space  apart. 

Holding  a  viol,  waiting  for  command. 

Music  must  not  be  wasted,  but  must  rise 

As  needed  climax  ;  and  the  audience 

Is  growing  with  late  comers.    Juan  now. 

And  the  familiar  Host,  with  Blasco  broad, 

Find  way  made  gladly  to  the  inmost  round 

Studded  with  heads.    Lorenzo  knits  the  crowd 

Into  one  family  by  showing  all 

Good-will  and  recognition.    Juan  casts 

His  large  and  rapid-measuring  glance  around ; 

But  —  with  faint  quivering,  transient  as  a  breath 

Shaking  a  flame  - —  his  eyes  make  sudden  pause 

Where  by  the  jutting  angle  of  a  street 

Castle-ward  leading,  stands  a  female  form, 

A  kerchief  pale  square-drooping  o'er  the  brow, 

About  her  shoulders  dim  brown  serge,  —  in  garb 

Most  like  a  peasant-woman  from  the  vale, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


61 


Who  might  have  lingered  after  marketing 

To  see  the  show.    What  thrill  mysterious, 

Eay-borne  from  orb  to  orb  of  conscious  eyes, 

The  swift  observing  sweep  of  Juan's  glance 

Arrests  an  instant,  then  with  prompting  fresh 

Diverts  it  lastingly  ?    He  turns  at  once 

To  watch  the  gilded  balls,  and  nod  and  smile 

At  little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 

In  all  Bedmar,  —  Pepita,  fair  yet  flecked. 

Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 

As  breasts  of  robins  stepping  on  the  snow,  — 

Who  stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet. 

And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 

Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 

But  soon  the  gilded  balls  have  ceased  to  play, 

And  Annibal  is  leaping  through  the  hoops 

That  turn  to  twelve,  meeting  him  as  he  flies 

In  the  swift  circle.    Shuddering  he  leaps, 

But  with  each  spring  flies  swift  and  swifter  still 

To  loud  and  louder  shouts,  while  the  great  hoops 

Are  changed  to  smaller.    Now  the  crowd  is  fired. 

The  motion  swift,  the  living  victim  urged. 

The  imminent  failure  and  repeated  scape 

Hurry  all  pulses  and  intoxicate 

With  subtle  wine  of  passion  many-mixt. 

^T  is  all  about  a  monkey  leaping  hard 

Till  near  to  gasping ;  but  it  serves  as  well 

As  the  great  circus  or  arena  dire, 

Where  these  are  lacking.    Eoldan  cautiously 

Slackens  the  leaps  and  lays  the  hoops  to  rest, 

And  Annibal  retires  with  reeling  brain 

And  backward  stagger,  —  pity,  he  could  not  smile  ! 

Now  Eoldan  spreads  his  carpet,  now  he  shows 
Strange  metamorphoses  ;  the  pebble  black 


62 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Changes  to  whitest  egg  within  his  hand ; 

A  staring  rabbit,  with  retreating  ears, 

Is  swallowed  by  the  air  and  vanishes ; 

He  tells  men's  thoughts  about  the  shaken  dice, 

Their  secret  choosings ;  makes  the  white  beans  pass 

With  causeless  act  sublime  from  cup  to  cup 

Turned  empty  on  the  ground,  —  diablerie 

That  pales  the  girls  and  puzzles  all  the  boys : 

These  tricks  are  samples,  hinting  to  the  town 

Eoldan's  great  mastery.    He  tumbles  next. 

And  Annibal  is  called  to  mock  each  feat 

With  arduous  comicality  and  save 

By  rule  romantic  the  great  public  mind 

(And  Eoldan's  body)  from  too  serious  strain. 

But  with  the  tumbling,  lest  the  feats  should  fail, 

And  so  need  veiling  in  a  haze  of  sound, 

Pablo  awakes  the  viol  and  the  bow,  — 

The  masculine  bow  that  draws  the  woman's  heart 

From  out  the  strings  and  makes  them  cry,  yearn,  plead, 

Tremble,  exult,  with  mystic  union 

Of  joy  acute  and  tender  suffering. 

To  play  the  viol  and  discreetly  mix 

Alternate  with  the  bow's  keen  biting  tones 

The  throb  responsive  to  the  finger's  touch, 

Was  rarest  skill  that  Pablo  half  had  caught 

From  an  old  blind  and  wandering  Catalan  5 

The  other  half  was  rather  heritage 

From  treasure  stored  by  generations  past 

In  winding  chambers  of  receptive  sense. 

The  winged  sounds  exalt  the  thick-pressed  crowd 
With  a  new  pulse  in  common,  blending  all 
The  gazing  life  into  one  larger  soul 
With  dimly  widened  consciousness  :  as  waves 


THE  SPA^^ISH  GYPSY. 


63 


In  heiglitened  movement  tell  of  waves  far  off. 

And  the  light  changes  ;  westward  stationed  clouds, 

The  sun's  ranged  outposts,  luminous  message  spread, 

Eousing  quiescent  things  to  doff  their  shade 

And  show  themselves  as  added  audience. 

Now  Pablo,  letting  fall  the  eager  bow, 

Solicits  softer  murmurs  from  the  strings. 

And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice 

(Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily) 

With  wounding  rapture  in  it,  like  love's  arrows ; 

And  clear  upon  clear  air  as  colored  gems 

Dropped  in  a  crystal  cup  of  water  pure, 

Fall  words  of  sadness,  simple,  lyrical : 

Spring  comes  hither ^ 

Buds  the  rose  ; 
Roses  wither^ 

Sweet  spring  goes, 
Ojaldy  would  she  carry  me  ! 

Summer  soars,  — 

Wide-winged  day 
White  light  pours, 
Flies  away, 
Ojald,  would  he  carry  me  ! 

Soft  winds  blow, 

Westward  horn, 
Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn, 
Ojaldy  would  they  carry  me  ! 

Sweet  birds  sing 

O^er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 
O^er  the  waves, 
Ojald,  would  they  carry  me  ! 


64 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


When  the  voice  paused  and  left  the  vioFs  note 
To  plead  forsaken,  't  was  as  when  a  cloud, 
Hiding  the  sun,  makes  all  the  leaves  and  flowers 
Shiver.    But  when  with  measured  change  the  strings 
Had  taught  regret  new  longing,  clear  again, 
Welcome  as  hope  recovered,  flowed  the  voice. 

Warm  whispering  through  the  slender  olive  leaves 
Came  to  me  a  gentle  sound, 
Whispeinng  of  a  secret  found 
In  the  clear  sunshine  ^mid  the  golden  sheaves  : 
Said  it  ivas  sleeping  for  me  in  the  morn, 
Called  it  gladness,  called  it  joy, 
Drew  me  on  —  "  Come  hither,  hoy  "  — 
To  where  the  blue  wings  rested  on  the  corn, 
I  thought  the  gentle  sound  had  whispered  tmte,  — 
Thought  the  little  heaven  mine. 
Leaned  to  clutch  the  thing  divine. 
And  saw  the  blue  wings  melt  within  the  blue. 

The  long  notes  linger  on  the  trembling  air, 

With  subtle  penetration  enter  all 

The  myriad  corridors  of  the  passionate  soul. 

Message-like  spread,  and  answering  action  rouse. 

Not  angular  jigs  that  warm  the  chilly  limbs 

In  hoary  northern  mists,  but  action  curved 

To  soft  andante  strains  pitched  plaintively. 

Vibrations  sympathetic  stir  all  limbs : 

Old  men  live  backward  in  their  dancing  prime, 

And  move  in  memory ;  small  legs  and  arms 

With  pleasant  agitation  purposeless 

Go  up  and  down  like  pretty  fruits  in  gales. 

All  long  in  common  for  the  expressive  act 

Yet  wait  for  it ;  as  in  the  olden  time 

Men  waited  for  the  bard  to  tell  their  thought. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


^^The  dance  !  the  dance  ! "  is  shouted  all  around. 
Now  Pablo  lifts  the  bow,  Pepita  now, 
Eeady  as  bird  that  sees  the  sprinkled  corn, 
When  Juan  nods  and  smiles,  puts  forth  her  foot 
And  lifts  her  arm  to  wake  the  castanets. 
Juan  advances,  too,  from  out  the  ring 
And  bends  to  quit  his  lute ;  for  now  the  scene 
Is  empty ;  Eoldan,  weary,  gathers  pence, 
Followed  by  Annibal  with  purse  and  stick. 
The  carpet  lies  a  colored  isle  untrod. 
Inviting  feet :  "  The  dance,  the  dance,"  resounds, 
The  bow  entreats  with  slow  melodic  strain. 
And  all  the  air  with  expectation  yearns. 

Sudden,  with  gliding  motion  like  a  flame 

That  through  dim  vapor  makes  a  path  of  glory, 

A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron-robed, 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle,  and  now  stood 

With  ripened  arms  uplift  and  regal  head. 

Like  some  tall  flower  whose  dark  and  intense  heart 

Lies  half  within  a  tulip-tinted  cup. 

Juan  stood  fixed  and  pale ;  Pepita  stepped 
Backward  within  the  ring  :  the  voices  fell 
From  shouts  insistent  to  more  passive  tones 
Half  meaning  welcome,  half  astonishment. 
"  Lady  Fedalma !  —  will  she  dance  for  us  ?  " 

But  she,  sole  swayed  by  impulse  passionate. 
Feeling  all  life  was  music  and  all  eyes 
The  warming,  quickening  light  that  music  makes, 
Moved  as,  in  dance  religious,  Miriam, 
When  on  the  Eed  Sea  shore  she  raised  her  voice, 
And  led  the  chorus  of  her  people's  joy ; 
Or  as  the  Trojan  maids  that  reverent  sang 
6 


66 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Watching  the  sorrow-crowned  Hecuba  : 
Moved  in  slow  curves  voluminous^  gradual, 
Feeling  and  action  flowing  into  one, 
In  Eden's  natural  taintless  marriage-bond ; 
Ardently  modest,  sensuously  pure, 
With  young  delight  that  wonders  at  itself 
And  throbs  as  innocent  as  opening  flowers, 
Knowing  not  comment,  —  soilless,  beautiful. 
The  spirit  in  her  gravely  glowing  face 
With  sweet  community  informs  her  limbs, 
Filling  their  fine  gradation  with  the  breath 
Of  virgin  majesty  ;  as  full  vo welled  words 
Are  new  impregnate  with  the  master's  thought. 
Even  the  chance-strayed  delicate  tendrils  black, 
That  backward  'scape  from  out  her  wreathing  hair,  — 
Even  the  pliant  folds  that  cling  transverse 
When  with  obliquely  soaring  bend  altern 
She  seems  a  goddess  quitting  earth  again  — 
Gather  expression  —  a  soft  undertone 
And  resonance  exquisite  from  the  grand  chord 
»        Of  her  harmoniously  bodied  soul. 

At  first  a  reverential  silence  guards 

The  eager  senses  of  the  gazing  crowd  : 

They  hold  their  breath,  and  live  by  seeing  her. 

But  soon  the  admiring  tension  finds  relief,  — 

Sighs  of  delight,  applausive  murmurs  low, 

And  stirrings  gentle  as  of  eared  corn 

Or  seed-bent  grasses,  when  the  ocean's  breath 

Spreads  landward.    Even  Juan  is  impelled 

By  the  swift-travelling  movement :  fear  and  doubt 

Give  way  before  the  hurrying  energy ; 

He  takes  his  lute  and  strikes  in  fellowship. 

Filling  more  full  the  rill  of  melody 

Raised  ever  and  anon  to  clearest  flood 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


By  Pablo's  voice,  that  dies  away  too  soon, 
Like  the  sweet  blackbird's  fragmentary  chant, 
Yet  wakes  again,  with  varying  rise  and  fall. 
In  songs  that  seem  emergent  memories 
Prompting  brief  utterance,  —  little  cancions 
And  villancicos,  Andalusia-born. 

Pablo  (sings). 

It  was  in  the  prime 

Of  the  sweet  Spring-time, 

In  the  linnefs  throat 

Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadows  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf, 

Happy  in  large  light 
And  the  thinnest  self. 

It  was  but  a  minute 

In  a  far-off  Spring, 

But  each  gentle  thing. 
Sweetly -loooing  linnet. 

Soft-thrilled  hawthorn-tree, 
Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self, 

Live  still  on  in  me. 
Oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  prime 
Of  the  past  Spring-time  ! 

And  still  the  light  is  changing :  high  above 
Ploat  soft  pink  clouds ;  others  with  deeper  flush 
Stretch  like  flamingoes  bending  toward  the  south. 
Comes  a  more  solemn  brilliance  o'er  the  sky, 
A  meaning  more  intense  upon  the  air,  — 


68  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  inspiration  of  the  dying  day. 
And  Juan  now,  when  Pablo's  notes  subside, 
Soothes  the  regretful  ear,  and  breaks  the  pause 
With  masculine  voice  in  deep  antiphony. 

JuAK  (sings). 

Day  is  dying  I    Floaty  0  song, 

Down  the  westward  river, 
Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day,  — 

Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  ty  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting : 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

^Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flowW 

Inly  deeper  flushing, 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin^ s  pure,  — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !    Float,  0  swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river  / 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver, 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardor  of  the  crowd. 

The  strains  more  plenteous,  and  the  gathering  might 

Of  action  passionate  where  no  effort  is, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


But  self's  poor  gates  open  to  rushing  power 

That  blends  the  inward  ebb  and  outward  vast^  — 

All  gathering  influences  culminate 

And  urge  Fedalma.    Earth  and  heaven  seem  one, 

Life  a  glad  trembling  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  unknown  rapture.    Swifter  now  she  moves, 

Filling  the  measure  with  a  double  beat 

And  widening  circle ;  now  she  seems  to  glow 

With  more  declared  presence,  glorified. 

Circling,  she  lightly  bends  and  lifts  on  high 

The  multitudinous-sounding  tambourine. 

And  makes  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifts  it  higher 

Stretching  her  left  arm  beauteous ;  now  the  crowd 

Exultant  shouts,  forgetting  poverty 

In  the  rich  moment  of  possessing  her. 

But  sudden,  at  one  point,  the  exultant  throng 
Is  pushed  and  hustled,  and  then  thrust  apart : 
Something  approaches,  —  something  cuts  the  ring 
Of  jubilant  idlers,  —  startling  as  a  streak 
From  alien  wounds  across  the  blooming  flesh 
Of  careless  sporting  childhood.    'T  is  the  band 
Of  Gypsy  prisoners.    Soldiers  lead  the  van 
And  make  sparse  flanking  guard,  aloof  surveyed 
By  gallant  Lopez,  stringent  in  command. 
The  Gypsies  chained  in  couples,  all  save  one, 
Walk  in  dark  file  with  grand  bare  legs  and  arms 
And  savage  melancholy  in  their  eyes 
That  star-like  gleam  from  out  black  clouds  of  hair 
Now  they  are  full  in  sight,  and  now  they  stretch 
Eight  to  the  centre  of  the  open  space. 
Fedalma  now,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweep 
Eeturning,  like  the  loveliest  of  the  Hours 
Strayed  from  her  sisters,  truant  lingering, 
Faces  again  the  centre,  swings  again 


70 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  uplifted  tambourine  

When  lo  !  with  sound 
Stupendous  throbbing,  solemn  as  a  voice 
Sent  by  the  invisible  choir  of  all  the  dead, 
Tolls  the  great  passing  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 
Por  souls  departed :  at  the  mighty  beat 
It  seems  the  light  sinks  awe-struck,  —  't  is  the  note 
Of  the  sun's  burial ;  speech  and  action  pause  ; 
Eeligious  silence  and  the  holy  sign 
Of  everlasting  memories  (the  sign 
Of  death  that  turned  to  more  diffusive  life) 
Pass  o'er  the  Pla9a.    Little  children  gaze 
With  lips  apart,  and  feel  the  unknown  god ; 
And  the  most  men  and  women  pray.    Not  all. 
The  soldiers  pray ;  the  Gypsies  stand  unmoved 
As  pagan  statues  with  proud  level  gaze. 
But  he  who  wears  a  solitary  chain 
Heading  the  file,  has  turned  to  face  Eedalma. 
She  motionless,  with  arm  uplifted,  guards 
The  tambourine  aloft  (lest,  sudden-lowered, 
Its  trivial  jingle  mar  the  duteous  pause), 
Eeveres  the  general  prayer,  but  prays  not,  stands 
With  level  glance  meeting  that  Gypsy's  eyes, 
That  seem  to  her  the  sadness  of  the  world 
Kebuking  her,  the  great  bell's  hidden  thought 
Now  first  unveiled,  —  the  sorrows  unredeemed 
Of  races  outcast,  scorned,  and  wandering. 
Why  does  he  look  at  her  ?  why  she  at  him  ? 
As  if  the  meeting  light  between  their  eyes 
Made  permanent  union  ?    His  deep-knit  brow, 
Inflated  nostril,  scornful  lip  compressed, 
Seem  a  dark  hieroglyph  of  coming  fate 
Written  before  her.    Father  Isidor 
Had  terrible  eyes,  and  was  her  enemy ; 
She  knew  it  and  defied  him ;  all  her  soul 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  71 

Eounded  and  hardened  in  its  separateness 

When  they  encountered.    But  this  prisoner,  — 

This  Gypsy,  passing,  gazing  casually,  — 

Was  he  her  enemy  too  ?    She  stood  all  quelled, 

The  impetuous  joy  that  hurried  in  her  veins 

Seemed  backward  rushing  turned  to  chillest  awe, 

Uneasy  wonder,  and  a  vague  self-doubt. 

The  minute  brief  stretched  measureless,  dream-filled 

By  a  dilated  new-fraught  consciousness. 

Now  it  was  gone ;  the  pious  murmur  ceased. 
The  Gypsies  all  moved  onward  at  command 
And  careless  noises  blent  confusedly. 
But  the  ring  closed  again,  and  many  ears 
Waited  for  Pablo's  music,  many  eyes 
Turned  towards  the  carpet :  it  lay  bare  and  dim, 
Twilight  was  there,  —  the  bright  Fedalma  gone. 

A  handsome  room  in  the  Castle.    On  a  table  a  rich 
jewel-casket 

Silva  had  dropped  his  mail  and  with  it  all 
The  heavier  harness  of  his  warlike  cares. 
He  had  not  seen  Fedalma ;  miser-like 
He  hoarded  through  the  hour  a  costlier  joy 
By  longing  oft-repressed.    Now  it  was  earned ; 
And  with  observance  wonted  he  would  send 
To  ask  admission.    Spanish  gentlemen 
Who  wooed  fair  dames  of  noble  ancestry 
Did  homage  with  rich  tunics  and  slashed  sleeves 
And  outward-surging  linen's  costly  snow ; 
With  broidered  scarf  transverse,  and  rosary 
Handsomely  wrought  to  fit  high-blooded  prayer ; 
So  hinting  in  how  deep  respect  they  held 


72  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  self  they  threw  before  their  lady's  feet. 

And  Silva  —  that  Fedalma's  rate  should  stand 

No  jot  below  the  highest,  that  her  love 

Might  seem  to  all  the  royal  gift  it  was  — 

Turned  every  trifle  in  his  mien  and  garb 

To  scrupulous  language,  uttering  to  the  world 

That  since  she  loved  him  he  went  carefully, 

Bearing  a  thing  so  precious  in  his  hand. 

A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 

In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 

That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion : 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 

With  keen  imagination's  difficult  needs  ;  — 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o'er  with  eyes, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 

Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 

And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  naught. 

A  nature  half -transformed,  with  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 

Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate ; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe, 

Sinking  anon  to  furthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 

Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush  * 

Eight  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.    A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


73 


Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousners 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously  :  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

Ajid  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.    In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously.    Silva  stands 

As  a  young  Spaniard,  handsome,  noble,  brave. 

With  titles  many,  high  in  pedigree ; 

Or,  as  a  nature  quiveringly  poised 

In  reach  of  storms,  whose  qualities  may  turn 

To  murdered  virtues  that  still  walk  as  ghosts 

Within  the  shuddering  soul  and  shriek  remorse ; 

Or,  as  a  lover  ....    In  the  screening  time 

Of  purple  blossoms,  when  the  petals  crowd 

And  softly  crush  like  cherub  cheeks  in  heaven, 

Who  thinks  of  greenly  withered  fruit  and  worms  ? 

Oh  the  warm  southern  spring  is  beauteous ! 

And  in  love's  spring  all  good  seems  possible : 

No  threats,  all  promise,  brooklets  ripple  full 

And  bathe  the  rushes,  vicious  crawling  things 

Are  pretty  eggs,  the  sun  shines  graciously 

And  parches  not,  the  silent  rain  beats  warm 

As  childhood's  kisses,  days  are  young  and  grow, 

And  earth  seems  in  its  sweet  beginning  time 

Fresh  made  for  two  who  live  in  Paradise. 

Silva  is  in  love's  spring,  its  freshness  breathed 

Within  his  soul  along  the  dusty  ways 

While  marching  homeward ;  't  is  around  him  now 

As  in  a  garden  fenced  in  for  delight,  — 

And  he  may  seek  delight.    Smiling  he  lifts 

A  whistle  from  his  belt,  but  lets  it  fall 

Ere  it  has  reached  his  lips,  jarred  by  the  sound 


74 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  ushers'  knocking,  and  a  voice  that  craves 
Admission  for  the  Prior  of  San  Domingo. 

Prior  {entering). 

You  look  perturbed;  my  son.    I  thrust  myself 
Between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
That  wears  a  face  more  smiling  than  my  own. 

Don  Silva. 

Father,  enough  that  you  are  here.    I  wait, 

As  always,  your  commands,  —  nay,  should  have  sought 

An  early  audience. 

Prior. 

To  give,  I  trust. 
Good  reasons  for  your  change  of  policy  ? 

Don  Silva. 
Strong  reasons,  father. 

Prior. 

Ay,  but  are  they  good  ? 
I  have  known  reasons  strong,  but  strongly  evil. 

Don  Silva. 

'T  is  possible.    I  but  deliver  mine 

To  your  strict  judgment.    Late  despatches  sent 

With  urgence  by  the  Count  of  Bavien, 

No  hint  on  my  part  prompting,  with  besides 

The  testified  concurrence  of  the  king 

And  our  Grand  Master,  have  made  peremptory 

The  course  which  else  had  been  but  rational. 

"Without  the  forces  furnished  by  allies 

The  siege  of  Guadix  would  be  madness.  More, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


75 


El  Zagal  has  his  eyes  upon  Bedmar : 

Let  him  attempt  it :  in  three  weeks  from  hence 

The  Master  and  the  Lord  of  Aguilar 

Will  bring  their  forces.    We  shall  catch  the  Moors, 

The  last  gleaned  clusters  of  their  bravest  men, 

As  in  a  trap.    You  have  my  reasons,  father. 

Prior. 

And  they  sound  well.    But  free-tongued  rumor  adds 

A  pregnant  supplement,  —  in  substance  this : 

That  inclination  snatches  arguments 

To  make  indulgence  seem  judicious  choice ; 

That  you,  commanding  in  God's  Holy  War, 

Lift  prayers  to  Satan  to  retard  the  fight 

And  give  you  time  for  feasting,  —  wait  a  siege, 

Call  daring  enterprise  impossible. 

Because  you 'd  marry !    You,  a  Spanish  duke, 

Christ's  general,  would  marry  like  a  clown, 

Who,  selling  fodder  dearer  for  the  war. 

Is  all  the  merrier ;  nay,  like  the  brutes, 

Who  know  no  awe  to  check  their  appetite, 

Coupling  'mid  heaps  of  slain,  while  still  in  front 

The  battle  rages. 

D0]S-  SiLVA. 

Eumor  on  your  lips 

Is  eloquent,  father. 

Prior. 

Is  she  true  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Perhaps. 

I  seek  to  justify  my  public  acts 

And  not  my  private  joy.    Before  the  world 

Enough  if  I  am  faithful  in  command^ 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Betray  not  by  my  deeds,  swerve  from  no  task 
My  knightly  vows  constrain  me  to :  herein 
I  ask  all  men  to  test  me. 

Prior. 

Knightly  vows  ? 
Is  it  by  their  constraint  that  you  must  marry  ? 

Don  Silva. 
Marriage  is  not  a  breach  of  them.    I  use 
A  sanctioned  liberty  ....  your  pardon,  father, 
I  need  not  teach  you  what  the  Church  decrees. 
But  facts  may  weaken  texts,  and  so  dry  up 
The  fount  of  eloquence.    The  Church  relaxed 
Our  Order's  rule  before  I  took  the  vows. 

Prior. 

Ignoble  liberty !  you  snatch  your  rule 

From  what  God  tolerates,  not  what  he  loves  ?  — 

Inquire  what  lowest  offering  may  suffice, 

Cheapen  it  meanly  to  an  obolus. 

Buy,  and  then  count  the  coin  left  in  your  purse 

For  your  debauch  ?  —  Measure  obedience 

By  scantest  powers  of  feeble  brethren 

Whom  Holy  Church  indulges  ?  —  Ask  great  Law, 

The  rightful  Sovereign  of  the  human  soul. 

For  what  it  pardons,  not  what  it  commands  ? 

Oh  fallen  knighthood,  penitent  of  high  vows, 

Asking  a  charter  to  degrade  itself ! 

Such  poor  apology  of  rules  relaxed 

Blunts  not  suspicion  of  that  doubleness 

Your  enemies  tax  you  with. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  for  the  rest, 
Conscience  is  harder  than  our  enemies, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY, 


77 


Knows  more,  accuses  with  more  nicety, 
Kor  needs  to  question  Kumor  if  we  fall 
Below  the  perfect  model  of  our  thought. 
I  fear  no  outward  arbiter.  —  You  smile  ? 

Prior. 

Ay,  at  the  contrast  'twixt  your  portraiture 

And  the  true  image  of  your  conscience,  shown 

As  now  I  see  it  in  your  acts.    I  see 

A  drunken  sentinel  who  gives  alarm 

At  his  own  shadow,  but  when  scalers  snatch 

His  weapon  from  his  hand  smiles  idiot-like 

At  games  he 's  dreaming  of. 

Doisr  SiLVA. 

A  parable ! 

The  husk  is  rough,  —  holds  something  bitter,  doubtless. 
Prior. 

Oh,  the  husk  gapes  with  meaning  over-ripe. 
You  boast  a  conscience  that  controls  your  deeds, 
Watches  your  knightly  armor,  guards  your  rank 
From  stain  of  treachery,  —  you,  helpless  slave. 
Whose  will  lies  nerveless  in  the  clutch  of  lust,  — 
Of  blind  mad  passion,  —  passion  itself  most  helpless, 
Storm-driven,  like  the  monsters  of  the  sea. 
0  famous  conscience ! 

Don  Silva. 
Pause  there !    Leave  unsaid 
Aught  that  will  match  that  text.    More  were  too  much, 
Even  from  holy  lips.    I  own  no  love 
But  such  as  guards  my  honor,  since  it  guards 
Hers  whom  I  love !    I  suffer  no  foul  words 
To  stain  the  gift  I  lay  before  her  feet ; 
And,  being  hers,  my  honor  is  more  safe. 


78 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Prior. 

Verse-makers'  talk !  fit  for  a  world  of  rhymes, 

Where  facts  are  feigned  to  tickle  idle  ears, 

Where  good  and  evil  play  at  tournament 

And  end  in  amity,  —  a  world  of  lies,  — 

A  carnival  of  words  where  every  year 

Stale  falsehoods  serve  fresh  men.    Your  honor  safe  ? 

What  honor  has  a  man  with  double  bonds  ? 

Honor  is  shifting  as  the  shadows  are 

To  souls  that  turn  their  passions  into  laws. 

A  Christian  knight  who  weds  an  infidel  .... 

Don  Silva  (^fiercely). 

An  infidel ! 

Prior. 

May  one  day  spurn  the  Cross, 
And  call  that  honor!  —  one  day  find  his  sword 
Stained  with  his  brother's  blood,  and  call  that  honor ! 
Apostates'  honor  ?  —  harlots'  chastity  1 
Renegades'  faithfulness  ?  —  Iscariot's ! 

Don  Silva. 

Strong  words  and  burning ;  but  they  scorch  not  me. 
Fedalma  is  a  daughter  of  the  Church,  — 
Has  been  baptized  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 

Prior. 

Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who  yet 
Are  brides  of  Satan  in  a  robe  of  flames. 

Don  Silva. 

Fedalma  is  no  Jewess,  bears  no  marks 
That  tell  of  Hebrew  blood. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Pkior. 

She  bears  the  marks 
Of  races  unbaptized^  that  never  bowed 
Before  the  holy  signs,  were  never  moved 
By  stirrings  of  the  sacramental  gifts. 

Don  Silva  (scornfully). 
Holy  accusers  practise  palmistry, 
And,  other  witness  lacking,  read  the  skin. 

Prior. 

I  read  a  record  deeper  than  the  skin. 

What !    Shall  the  trick  of  nostrils  and  of  lips 

Descend  through  generations,  and  the  soul 

That  moves  within  our  frame  like  God  in  worlds  — 

Convulsing,  urging,  melting,  withering  — 

Imprint  no  record,  leave  no  documents, 

Of  her  great  history  ?    Shall  men  bequeath 

The  fancies  of  their  palate  to  their  sons. 

And  shall  the  shudder  of  restraining  awe, 

The  slow-wept  tears  of  contrite  memory. 

Faith's  prayerful  labor,  and  the  food  divine 

Of  fasts  ecstatic,  —  shall  these  pass  away 

Like  wind  upon  the  waters,  tracklessly  ? 

Shall  the  mere  curl  of  eyelashes  remain 

And  god-enshrining  symbols  leave  no  trace 

Of  tremors  reverent  ?  —  That  maiden's  blood 

Is  as  unchristian  as  the  leopard's. 

Don  Silva. 

Say, 

Unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin's  blood 
Before  the  angel  spoke  the  word,    All  hail ! " 

Prior  (smiling  bitterly). 
Say  I  not  truly  ?    See,  your  passion  weaves 
Already  blasphemies ! 


80 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

'T  is  you  provoke  them. 

Prior. 

I  strive,  as  still  the  Holy  Spirit  strives, 

To  move  the  will  perverse.    But,  failing  this, 

God  commands  other  means  to  save  our  blood, 

To  save  Castilian  glory,  —  nay,  to  save 

The  name  of  Christ  from  blot  of  traitorous  deeds. 

Don  Silva. 

Of  traitorous  deeds !    Age,  kindred,  and  your  cowl, 

Give  an  ignoble  license  to  your  tongue. 

As  for  your  threats,  fulfil  them  at  your  peril. 

'T  is  you,  not  I,  will  gibbet  our  great  name 

To  rot  in  infamy.    If  I  am  strong 

In  patience  now,  trust  me,  I  can  be  strong 

Then  in  defiance. 

Prior. 

Miserable  man ! 
Your  strength  will  turn  to  anguish,  like  the  strength 
Of  fallen  angels.    Can  you  change  your  blood  ? 
You  are  a  Christian,  with  the  Christian  awe 
In  every  vein.    A  Spanish  noble,  born 
To  serve  your  people  and  your  people's  faith. 
Strong,  are  you  ?    Turn  your  back  upon  the  Cross,  — 
Its  shadow  is  before  you.    Leave  your  place  : 
Quit  the  great  ranks  of  knighthood :  you  will  walk 
Forever  with  a  tortured  double  self, 
A  self  that  will  be  hungry  while  you  feast, 
Will  blush  with  shame  while  you  are  glorified. 
Will  feel  the  ache  and  chill  of  desolation, 
Even  in  the  very  bosom  of  your  love. 
Mate  yourself  with  this  woman,  fit  for  what  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


81 


To  make  the  sport  of  Moorish,  palaces, 
A  lewd  Herodias  .... 

Don  Silva. 

Stop  !  no  other  man, 
Priest  though  he  were,  had  had  his  throat  left  free 
For  passage  of  those  words.    I  would  have  clutched 
His  serpent's  neck,  and  flung  him  out  to  hell ! 
A  monk  must  needs  defile  the  name  of  love : 
He  knows  it  but  as  tempting  devils  paint  it. 
You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolve 
With  arbitrary  consequences,  strained 
By  rancorous  effort  from  the  thinnest  motes 
Of  possibility  ?  —  cite  hideous  lists 
Of  sins  irrelevant,  to  frighten  me 
With  bugbears'  names,  as  women  fright  a  child  ? 
Poor  pallid  wisdom,  taught  by  inference 
From  blood-drained  life,  where  phantom  terrors  rule, 
And  all  achievement  is  to  leave  undone ! 
Paint  the  day  dark,  make  sunshine  cold  to  me, 
Abolish  the  earth's  fairness,  prove  it  all 
A  fiction  of  my  eyes,  —  then,  after  that, 
Profane  Fedalma. 

Prior. 

Oh,  there  is  no  need : 
She  has  profaned  herself.    Go,  raving  man. 
And  see  her  dancing  now.    Go,  see  your  bride 
Flaunting  her  beauties  grossly  in  the  gaze 
Of  vulgar  idlers,  —  eking  out  the  show 
Made  in  the  Pla9a  by  a  mountebank. 
I  hinder  you  no  further. 

Don  Silva. 

It  is  false ! 
6 


82 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Prior. 

Go,  prove  it  false,  tlien. 

[Father  Isidor 
Drew  on  his  cowl  and  turned  away.    The  face 
That  flashed  anathemas,  in  swift  eclipse 
Seemed  Silva's  vanished  confidence.    In  haste 
He  rushed  unsignalled  through  the  corridor 
To  where  the  Duchess  once,  Fedalma  now, 
Had  residence  retired  from  din  of  arms,  — 
Knocked,  opened,  found  all  empty,  —  said 
"With  muffled  voice,  "  Fedalma ! —  called  more  loud, 
More  oft  on  Inez,  the  old  trusted  nurse,  — 
Then  searched  the  terrace-garden,  calling  still. 
But  heard  no  answering  sound,  and  saw  no  face 
Save  painted  faces  staring  all  unmoved 
By  agitated  tones.    He  hurried  back. 
Giving  half -conscious  orders  as  he  went 
To  page  and  usher,  that  they  straight  should  seek 
Lady  Fedalma ;  then  with  stinging  shame 
Wished  himself  silent ;  reached  again  the  room 
Where  still  the  Father's  menace  seemed  to  hang 
Thickening  the  air  ;  snatched  cloak  and  plumed  hat. 
And  grasped,  not  knowing  why,  his  poniard's  hilt ; 
Then  checked  himself  and  said :  —  ] 

If  he  spoke  truth  ! 
To  know  were  wound  enough,  —  to  see  the  truth 
Were  fire  upon  the  wound.    It  must  be  false  ! 
His  hatred  saw  amiss,  or  snatched  mistake 
In  other  men's  report.    I  am  a  fool ! 
But  where  can  she  be  gone  ?  gone  secretly  ? 
And  in  my  absence  ?    Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong ! 
I  am  a  fool !  —  But  where  can  she  be  gone  ? 
With  only  Inez  ?    Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


83 


I  swear  she  never  meant  it.    There 's  no  wrong 
But  she  would  make  it  momentary  right 
By  innocence  in  doing  it  

And  yet, 

What  is  our  certainty  ?    Why,  knowing  all 
That  is  not  secret.    Mighty  confidence  ! 
One  pulse  of  Time  makes  the  base  hollow,  —  sends 
The  towering  certainty  we  built  so  high 
Toppling  in  fragments  meaningless.    What  is  — 
What  will  be  —  must  be  —  pooh  !  they  wait  the  key 
Of  that  which  is  not  yet ;  all  other  keys 
Are  made  of  our  conjectures,  take  their  sense 
From  humors  fooled  by  hope,  or  by  despair. 
Know  what  is  good  ?    Oh  God,  we  know  not  yet 
If  bliss  itself  is  not  young  misery 
With  fangs  swift  growing  

But  some  outward  harm 
May  even  now  be  hurting,  grieving  her. 
Oh,  I  must  search,  —  face  shame,  —  if  shame  be  there. 
Here,  Perez  !  hasten  to  Don  Alvar,  —  tell  him 
Lady  Fedalma  must  be  sought,  —  is  lost,  — 
Has  met,  I  fear,  some  mischance.    He  must  send 
Towards  divers  points.    I  go  myself  to  seek 
First  in  the  town  

[As  Perez  oped  the  door, 
Then  moved  aside  for  passage  of  the  Duke, 
Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 
Of  serge  and  linen,  and,  outbeaming  bright, 
Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva,  —  but  then  paused, 
For  he  had  started  and  retreated ;  she, 
Quick  and  responsive  as  the  subtle  air 
To  change  in  him,  divined  that  she  must  wait 
Until  they  were  alone  :  they  stood  and  looked. 
Within  the  Duke  was  struggling  confluence 


84 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Of  feelings  manifold,  —  pride,  anger,  dread, 

Meeting  in  stormy  rush  with  sense  secure 

That  she  was  present,  with  the  satisfied  thirst 

Of  gazing  love,  with  trust  inevitable 

As  in  beneficent  virtues  of  the  light 

And  all  earth's  sweetness,  that  Fedalma's  soul 

Was  free  from  blemishing  purpose.    Yet  proud  wrath 

Leaped  in  dark  flood  above  the  purer  stream 

That  strove  to  drown  it :  Anger  seeks  its  prey,  — 

Something  to  tear  with  sharp-edged  tooth  and  claw, 

Likes  not  to  go  off  hungry,  leaving  Love 

To  feast  on  milk  and  honeycomb  at  will. 

Silva's  heart  said,  he  must  be  happy  soon, 

She  being  there  ;  but  to  be  happy,  —  first 

He  must  be  angry,  having  cause.    Yet  love 

Shot  like  a  stifled  cry  of  tenderness 

All  through  the  harshness  he  would  fain  have  given 

To  the  dear  word,] 

Don  Silva. 

Fedalma ! 

Fed  ALMA. 

0  my  Lord ! 
You  are  come  back,  and  I  was  wandering  ! 

Don  Silva  (coldly^  hut  with  suppressed  agitation). 
You  meant  I  should  be  ignorant. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Oh  no, 

I  should  have  told  you  after,  —  not  before. 
Lest  you  should  hinder  me. 

Don  Silva. 

Then  my  known  wish 

Can  make  no  hindrance  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


85 


Fed  ALMA  (archly). 

That  depends 
On  what  the  wish  may  be.    You  wished  me  once 
Not  to  uncage  the  birds.    I  meant  to  obey : 
But  in  a  moment  something  —  something  stronger, 
Forced  me  to  let  them  out.    It  did  no  harm. 
They  all  came  back  again,  —  the  silly  birds  ! 
I  told  you,  after. 

Do^^  SiLYA  (with  haughty  coldness). 
Will  you  tell  me  now 
What  was  the  prompting  stronger  than  my  wish 
That  made  you  wander  ? 

Fedalma  (advancing  a  step  towards  him,  with  a 
sudden  look  of  anxiety). 

Are  you  angry  ? 

Don  Silva  (smiling  bitterly). 

Angry  ? 

A  man  deep-wounded  may  feel  too  much  pain 
To  feel  much  anger. 

Fedalma  (still  more  anxiously). 

You  —  deep-wounded  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes! 

Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
The  very  heart  of  my  ambition  ?    You,  — 
No  enemy  could  do  it,  —  you  alone 
Can  strike  it  mortally. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  Silva,  nay. 
Has  some  one  told  you  false  ?    I  only  went 
To  see  the  world  with  Inez,  —  see  the  town, 


86  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  people^  everything.    It  was  no  harm. 
I  did  not  mean  to  dance  :  it  happened  so 
At  last  .... 

Don  Silva. 
0  God^  it    true,  then  !  —  true  that  you, 
A  maiden  nurtured  as  rare  flowers  are, 
The  very  air  of  heaven  sifted  fine 
Lest  any  mote  should  mar  your  purity, 
Have  flung  yourself  out  on  the  dusty  way 
For  common  eyes  to  see  your  beauty  soiled ! 
You  own  it  true,  — you  danced  upon  the  Plaga  ? 

Fed  ALMA  (^proudly). 

Yes,  it  is  true.    I  was  not  wrong  to  dance. 

The  air  was  filled  with  music,  with  a  song 

That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  sweet  eventide,  — 

The  glowing  light  entering  through  eye  and  ear,  — 

That  seemed  our  love, — mine,  yours, — they  are  but  one, — • 

Trembling  through  all  my  limbs,  as  fervent  words 

Tremble  within  my  soul  and  must  be  spoken. 

And  all  the  people  felt  a  common  joy 

And  shouted  for  the  dance.    A  brightness  soft 

As  of  the  angels  moving  down  to  see 

Illumined  the  broad  space.    The  joy,  the  life 

Around,  within  me,  were  one  heaven :  I  longed 

To  blend  them  visibly  :  I  longed  to  dance 

Before  the  people,  —  be  as  mounting  flame 

To  all  that  burned  within  them  !    Nay,  I  danced ; 

There  was  no  longing :  I  but  did  the  deed 

Being  moved  to  do  it. 

(As  Fed  ALMA  speahs,  she  and  Dox  Silva  are  grad- 
ually drawn  nearer  to  each  other.) 

Oh,  I  seemed  new-waked 
To  life  in  unison  with  a  multitude,  — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


87 


Feeling  my  soul  upborne  by  all  tbeir  souls, 
Moating  within  their  gladness  !    Soon  I  lost 
All  sense  of  separateness  :  Fedalma  died 
As  a  star  dies,  and  melts  into  the  light. 
I  was  not,  but  joy  was,  and  love  and  triumph. 
!N"ay,  my  dear  lord,  I  never  could  do  aught 
But  I  must  feel  you  present.    And  once  done, 
Why,  you  must  love  it  better  than  your  wish. 
I  pray  you,  say  so,  —  say,  it  was  not  wrong  I 

(JVhile  Fed  ALMA  has  been  mahing  this  last  appeal, 

they  have  gradually  come  close  together,  and  at 

last  embrace?) 

Dox  SiLVA  (holding  her  hands). 
Dangerous  rebel !  if  the  world  without 
Were  pure  as  that  within  ....  but  ^t  is  a  book 
Wherein  you  only  read  the  poesy 
And  miss  all  wicked  meanings.    Hence  the  need 
For  trust  —  obedience,  —  call  it  what  you  will,  — 
Towards  him  whose  life  will  be  your  guard,  —  towards 
me 

Who  now  am  soon  to  be  your  husband. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Yes! 

That  very  thing  that  when  I  am  your  wife 

I  shall  be  something  different,  —  shall  be 

I  know  not  what,  a  duchess  with  new  thoughts,  — 

For  nobles  never  think  like  common  men, 

Nor  wives  like  maidens  (oh,  you  wot  not  yet 

How  much  I  note,  with  all  my  ignorance),  — 

That  very  thing  has  made  me  more  resolve 

To  have  my  will  before  I  am  your  wife. 

How  can  the  Duchess  ever  satisfy 

Fedalma's  unwed  eyes  ?  and  so  to-day 

I  scolded  Inez  till  she  cried  and  went. 


88  POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


DO]^-  SiLVA. 

It  was  a  guilty  weakness  :  she  knows  well 
That  since  you  pleaded  to  be  left  more  free 
From  tedious  tendance  and  control  of  dames 
Whose  rank  matched  better  with  your  destiny, 
Her  charge  —  my  trust  —  was  weightier. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Nay,  my  lord, 
You  must  not  blame  her,  dear  old  nurse.    She  cried. 
Why,  you  would  have  consented  too,  at  last. 
I  said  such  things  !    I  was  resolved  to  go. 
And  see  the  streets,  the  shops,  the  men  at  work, 
The  women,  little  children,  —  everything. 
Just  as  it  is  when  nobody  looks  on. 
And  I  have  done  it !    We  were  out  four  hours. 
I  feel  so  wise. 

Don"  Silva. 

Had  you  but  seen  the  town. 
You  innocent  naughtiness,  not  shown  yourself,  — 
Shown  yourself  dancing,  —  you  bewilder  me  !  — 
Frustrate  my  judgment  with  strange  negatives 
That  seem  like  poverty,  and  yet  are  wealth 
In  precious  womanliness,  beyond  the  dower 
Of  other  women :  wealth  in  virgin  gold, 
Outweighing  all  their  petty  currency. 
You  daring  modesty  !    You  shrink  no  more 
From  gazing  men  than  from  the  gazing  flowers 
That,  dreaming  sunshine,  open  as  you  pass. 

Fed  ALMA. 

No,  I  should  like  the  world  to  look  at  me 
With  eyes  of  love  that  make  a  second  day. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


89 


I  think  your  eyes  would  keep  the  life  in  me 
Though  I  had  naught  to  feed  on  else.    Their  blue 
Is  better  than  the  heavens',  —  hold  more  love 
For  me,  Fedalma,  —  is  a  little  heaven 
For  this  one  little  world  that  looks  up  now. 

Don  Silva. 

O  precious  little  world !  you  make  the  heaven 
As  the  earth  makes  the  sky.    But,  dear,  all  eyes, 
Though  looking  even  on  you,  have  not  a  glance 
That  cherishes  .... 

Fedalma. 

Ah  no,  I  meant  to  tell  you,  — 
Tell  how  my  dancing  ended  with  a  pang. 
There  came  a  man,  one  among  many  more, 
But  he  came  first,  with  iron  on  his  limbs. 
And  when  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  prayed, 
And  I  stood  pausing,  —  then  he  looked  at  me. 
0  Silva,  such  a  man !    I  thought  he  rose 
From  the  dark  place  of  long-imprisoned  souls, 
To  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them. 
It  was  a  look  to  shame  a  seraph's  joy 
And  make  him  sad  in  heaven.    It  found  me  there,  — 
Seemed  to  have  travelled  far  to  find  me  there 
And  grasp  me,  —  claim  this  festal  life  of  mine 
As  heritage  of  sorrow,  chill  my  blood 
With  the  cold  iron  of  some  unknown  bonds. 
The  gladness  hurrying  full  within  my  veins 
Was  sudden  frozen,  and  I  danced  no  more. 
But  seeing  you  let  loose  the  stream  of  joy. 
Mingling  the  present  with  the  sweetest  past. 
Yet,  Silva,  still  I  see  him.    Who  is  he  ? 
Who  are  those  prisoners  with  him  ?    Are  they  Moors  ? 


90  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

No,  they  are  Gypsies,  strong  and  cunning  knaves, 
A  double  gain  to  us  by  the  Moors'  loss  : 
The  man  you  mean  —  their  chief  —  is  an  ally 
The  infidel  will  miss.    His  look  might  chase 
A  herd  of  monks,  and  make  them  fly  more  swift 
Than  from  St.  Jerome's  lion.    Such  vague  fear, 
Such  bird-like  tremors  when  that  savage  glance 
Turned  full  upon  you  in  your  height  of  joy 
Was  natural,  was  not  worth  emphasis. 
Forget  it,  dear.    This  hour  is  worth  whole  days 
When  we  are  sundered.    Danger  urges  us 
To  quick  resolve. 

Fed  ALMA. 

What  danger  ?    What  resolve  ? 
I  never  felt  chill  shadow  in  my  heart 
Until  this  sunset. 

Don  Silva. 

A  dark  enmity 
Plots  how  to  sever  us.    And  our  defence 
Is  speedy  marriage,  secretly  achieved. 
Then  publicly  declared.    Beseech  you,  dear. 
Grant  me  this  confidence ;  do  my  will  in  this, 
Trusting  the  reasons  why  I  overset 
All  my  own  airy  building  raised  so  high 
Of  bridal  honors,  marking  when  you  step 
From  off  your  maiden  throne  to  come  to  me 
And  bear  the  yoke  of  love.    There  is  great  need. 
I  hastened  home,  carrying  this  prayer  to  you 
Within  my  heart.    The  bishop  is  my  friend, 
Furthers  our  marriage,  holds  in  enmity  — 
Some  whom  we  love  not  and  who  love  not  us. 
By  this  night's  moon  our  priest  will  be  despatched 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


91 


From  Jaen.    I  shall  march  an  escort  strong 
To  meet  him.    Ere  a  second  sun  from  this 
Has  risen  —  you  consenting  —  we  may  wed. 

Fed  ALMA. 
None  knowing  that  we  wed  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Beforehand  none 
Save  Inez  and  Don  Alvar.    But  the  vows 
Once  safely  binding  us^  my  household  all 
Shall  know  you  as  their  Duchess.    No  man  then 
Can  aim  a  blow  at  you  but  through  my  breast, 
And  what  stains  you  must  stain  our  ancient  name ; 
If  any  hate  you  I  will  take  his  hate 
And  wear  it  as  a  glove  upon  my  helm ; 
Nay,  God  himself  will  never  have  the  power 
To  strike  you  solely  and  leave  me  unhurt, 
He  having  made  us  one.    Now  put  the  seal 
Of  your  dear  lips  on  that. 

Fed  ALMA. 

A  solemn  kiss  ?  — 
Such  as  I  gave  you  when  you  came  that  day 
From  Cordova,  when  first  we  said  we  loved  ? 
When  you  had  left  the  ladies  of  the  court 
For  thirst  to  see  me  ;  and  you  told  me  so ; 
And  then  I  seemed  to  know  why  I  had  lived. 
I  never  knew  before.    A  kiss  like  that  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  yes,  you  face  divine  !    When  was  our  kiss 
Like  any  other  ? 

Fed  alma. 
Nay,  I  cannot  tell 
What  other  kisses  are.    But  that  one  kiss 


92 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Eemains  upon  my  lips.    The  angels,  spirits, 
Creatures  with  finer  sense,  may  see  it  there. 
And  now  another  kiss  that  will  not  die. 
Saying,  To-morrow  I  shall  be  your  wife  ! 

(They  kiss,  and  pause  a  moment,  looking  ear- 
nestly in  each  other^s  eyes.  Then  Fedalma, 
breaking  away  from  Don  Silva,  stands  at  a 
little  distance  from  him  with  a  look  of  roguish 
delight.) 

Now  I  am  glad  I  saw  the  town  to-day 

Before  I  am  a  Duchess,  —  glad  I  gave 

This  poor  Fedalma  all  her  wish.    For  once, 

Long  years  ago,  I  cried  when  Inez  said, 

"  You  are  no  more  a  little  girl ; "  I  grieved 

To  part  forever  from  that  little  girl 

And  all  her  happy  world  so  near  the  ground. 

It  must  be  sad  to  outlive  aught  we  love. 

So  I  shall  grieve  a  little  for  these  days 

Of  poor  unwed  Fedalma.    Oh,  they  are  sweet. 

And  none  will  come  just  like  them.    Perhaps  the  wind 

Wails  so  in  winter  for  the  summers  dead, 

And  all  sad  sounds  are  nature's  funeral  cries 

For  what  has  been  and  is  not.    Are  they,  Silva  ? 

{She  comes  nearer  to  him  again,  and  lays  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  looking  up  at  him  with  mel- 
ancholy.) 

Don  Silva. 

Why,  dearest,  you  began  in  merriment, 

And  end  as  sadly  as  a  widowed  bird. 

Some  touch  mysterious  has  new-tuned  your  soul 

To  melancholy  sequence.    You  soared  high 

In  that  wild  flight  of  rapture  when  you  danced, 

And  now  you  droop.    'T  is  arbitrary  grief, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


93 


Surfeit  of  happiness,  that  mourns  for  loss 

Of  unwed  love,  which  does  but  die  like  seed 

For  fuller  harvest  of  our  tenderness. 

We  in  our  wedded  life  shall  know  no  loss. 

We  shall  new-date  our  years.    What  went  before 

Will  be  the  time  of  promise,  shadows,  dreams ; 

But  this,  full  revelation  of  great  love. 

For  rivers  blent  take  in  a  broader  heaven, 

And  we  shall  blend  our  souls.    Away  with  grief ! 

When  this  dear  head  shall  wear  the  double  crown 

Of  wife  and  Duchess,  —  spiritually  crowned 

With  sworn  espousal  before  God  and  man,  — 

Visibly  crowned  with  jewels  that  bespeak 

The  chosen  sharer  of  my  heritage,  — 

My  love  will  gather  perfectness,  as  thoughts 

That  nourish  us  to  magnanimity 

Grow  perfect  with  more  perfect  utterance, 

Gathering  fuU-shapen  strength.    And  then  these  gems, 

(Don  Silva  draws  Fedalma  towards  the  jewel- 
casket  on  the  table^  and  opens  it.) 

Helping  the  utterance  of  my  soul's  full  choice, 
Will  be  the  words  made  richer  by  just  use. 
And  have  new  meaning  in  their  lustrousness. 
You  know  these  jewels  ;  they  are  precious  signs 
Of  long-transmitted  honor,  heightened  still 
By  worthy  wearing  ;  and  I  give  them  you,  — 
Ask  you  to  take  them,  —  place  our  house's  trust 
In  her  sure  keeping  whom  my  heart  has  found 
Worthiest,  most  beauteous.    These  rubies  —  see  — 
Were  falsely  placed  if  not  upon  your  brow. 

(Fedalma,  while  Don  Silva  holds  open  the  cas- 
kety  bends  over  it,  looking  at  the  jewels  with 
delight) 


94 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fed  ALMA. 

Ah,  I  remember  them.    In  childish  days 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive  and  breathed. 
I  used  to  sit  with  awe  and  look  at  them. 
And  now  they  will  be  mine  !    I  '11  put  them  on. 
Help  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall  see  me  now 
Somewhat  as  I  shall  look  at  Court  with  you, 
That  we  may  know  if  I  shall  bear  them  well. 
I  have  a  fear  sometimes  :  I  think  your  love 
Ha-s  never  paused  within  your  eyes  to  look, 
And  only  passes  through  them  into  mine. 
But  when  the  Court  is  looking,  and  the  queen. 
Your  eyes  will  follow  theirs.    Oh,  if  you  saw 
That  I  was  other  than  you  wished,  —  't  were  death ! 

Don  Silva  (taking  up  a  jeivel  and  placing  it  against 
her  ear). 

Nay,  let  us  try.    Take  out  your  ear-ring,  sweet. 
This  ruby  glows  with  longing  for  your  ear. 

Fedalma  (taking  out  her  ear-rings,  and  then  lifting 
up  the  other  jew  els  y  one  by  one). 

Pray,  fasten  in  the  rubies. 

(Don  Silva  begins  to  put  in  the  ear-ring.) 
I  was  right ! 

These  gems  have  life  in  them :  their  colors  speak, 
Say  what  words  fail  of.    So  do  many  things,  — 
The  scent  of  jasmine,  and  the  fountain's  plash, 
The  moving  shadows  on  the  far-off  hills, 
The  slanting  moonlight  and  our  clasping  hands. 
0  Silva,  there 's  an  ocean  round  our  words 
That  overflows  and  drowns  them.    Do  you  know 
Sometimes  when  we  sit  silent,  and  the  air 
Breathes  gently  on  us  from  the  orange-trees, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


95 


It  seems  that  with,  the  whisper  of  a  word 
Our  souls  must  shrink,  get  poorer,  more  apart. 
Is  it  not  true  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  dearest,  it  is  true. 
Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth 
Of  the  unspoken :  even  your  loved  words 
Float  in  the  larger  meaning  of  your  voice 
As  something  dimmer. 

(He  is  still  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second 
ear-ring^  while  she  has  stooped  again  over 
the  casket.) 

Fed  ALMA  (raising  her  head). 

Ah  !  your  lordly  hands 
Will  never  fix  that  jewel.    Let  me  try. 
Women's  small  finger-tips  have  eyes. 

Dojs-  Silva. 

]Sro,  no ! 

I  like  the  task,  only  you  must  be  still. 

(^She  stands  perfectly  still,  clasping  her  hands 
together  while  he  fastens  the  second  ear-ring. 
Suddenly  a  clanking  noise  is  heard  without,) 

Fed  alma  (starting  with  an  expression  of  pain). 

What  is  that  sound  ?  —  that  jarring  cruel  sound  ? 
is  there,  —  outside. 

(She  tries  to  start  away  towards  the  window, 
hut  Don  Silva  detains  her,) 

Don  Silva. 

Oh  heed  it  not,  it  comes 
From  workmen  in  the  outer  gallery. 


96 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fedalma. 

It  is  the  sound  of  fetters  :  sound  of  work 
Is  not  so  dismal.    Hark,  they  pass  along ! 
I  know  it  is  those  Gypsy  prisoners. 
I  saw  them,  heard  their  chains.    Oh  horrible, 
To  be  in  chains  !    Why,  I  with  all  my  bliss 
Have  longed  sometimes  to  fly  and  be  at  large ; 
Have  felt  imprisoned  in  my  luxury 
With  servants  for  my  jailers.    0  my  lord, 
Do  you  not  wish  the  world  were  different  ? 

Don  Silva. 

It  will  be  different  when  this  war  has  ceased. 
You,  wedding  me,  will  make  it  different, 
Making  one  life  more  perfect. 

Eedalma. 

That  is  true  ! 

And  I  shall  beg  much  kindness  at  your  hands 

For  those  who  are  less  happy  than  ourselves.  — 

(Brightening,)  Oh,  I  shall  rule  you !  ask  for  many  things 

Before  the  world,  which  you  will  not  deny 

For  very  pride,  lest  men  should  say,    The  Duke 

Holds  lightly  by  his  Duchess ;  he  repents 

His  humble  choice." 

(She  breaks  away  from  him  and  returns  to  the  jetu- 
els,  taking  up  a  necklace,  and  clasping  it  on  her 
neck,  while  he  takes  a  circlet  of  diamonds  and 
rubies  and  raises  it  towards  her  head  as  he 
speaks,) 

Don  Silva. 

Doubtless,  I  shall  persist 
In  loving  you,  to  disappoint  the  world  \ 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  97 


Out  of  pure  obstinacy  feel  myself 
Happiest  of  men.    Now,  take  the  coronet. 

{He  places  the  circlet  on  her  head.) 
The  diamonds  want  more  light.    See,  from  this  lamp 
I  can  set  tapers  burning. 

Fedalma. 

Tell  me,  now, 

When  all  these  cruel  wars  are  at  an  end, 
And  when  we  go  to  Court  at  Cordova, 
Or  Seville,  or  Toledo,  —  wait  awhile, 
T  must  be  farther  off  for  you  to  see,  — 

{She  retreats  to  a  distance  from  him,  and  then 
advances  slowly?) 
]S"ow  think  (I  would  the  tapers  gave  more  light !) 
If  when  you  show  me  at  the  tournaments 
Among  the  other  ladies,  they  will  say, 
^'  Duke  Silva  is  well  matched.    His  bride  was  naught. 
Was  some  poor  foster-child,  no  man  knows  what ; 
Yet  is  her  carriage  noble,  all  her  robes 
Are  worn  with  grace  :  she  might  have  been  well  born." 
Will  they  say  so  ?    Think  now  we  are  at  Court, 
And  all  eyes  bent  on  me. 

T>oi>i  Silva. 

Fear  not,  my  Duchess ! 
Some  knight  who  loves  may  say  his  lady-love 
Is  fairer,  being  fairest.    None  can  say 
Don  Silva's  bride  might  better  fit  her  rank. 
You  will  make  rank  seem  natural  as  kind, 
As  eagle's  plumage  or  the  lion's  might. 
A  crown  upon  your  brow  would  seem  God-made. 


7 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fed  ALMA. 

Then  I  am  glad !    I  shall  try  on  to-night 
The  other  jewels,  —  have  the  tapers  lit, 
And  see  the  diamonds  sparkle. 

{She  goes  to  the  casket  again.) 
Here  is  gold,  — 

A  necklace  of  pure  gold,  —  most  finely  wrought. 

(^She  takes  out  a  large  gold  necklace  and  holds 
it  up  before  her^  then  turns  to  Don  Silva.) 
But  this  is  one  that  you  have  worn,  my  lord  ? 

Don  Silva. 
No,  love,  I  never  wore  it.    Lay  it  down. 

(He  puts  the  necklace  gently  out  of  her  hand, 
then  joins  both  her  hands  and  holds  them  up 
between  his  own,) 

You  must  not  look  at  jewels  any  more, 

But  look  at  me. 

Fed  ALMA  (looking  up  at  him). 

0  you  dear  heaven ! 
I  should  see  naught  if  you  were  gone.    'T  is  true 
My  mind  is  too  much  given  to  gauds,  —  to  things 
That  fetter  thought  within  this  narrow  space. 
That  comes  of  fear. 

Don  Silva. 

What  fear  ? 

Fedalma. 

Fear  of  myself. 
For  when  I  walk  upon  the  battlements 
And  see  the  river  travelling  toward  the  plain, 
The  mountains  screening  all  the  world  beyond, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


A  longing  comes  tliat  haunts  me  in  my  dreams^  — 
Dreams  where  I  seem  to  spring  from  off  the  walls 
And  fly  far,  far  away,  until  at  last 
I  find  myself  alone  among  the  rocks, 
Remember  then  that  I  have  left  you,  —  try 
To  fly  back  to  you,  —  and  my  wings  are  gone ! 

DOK  SiLVA. 

A  wicked  dream !    If  ever  I  left  you. 

Even  in  dreams,  it  was  some  demon  dragged  me, 

And  with  fierce  struggles  I  awaked  myself. 

Fed  ALMA. 

It  is  a  hateful  dream,  and  when  it  comes,  — 

I  mean,  when  in  my  waking  hours  there  comes 

That  longing  to  be  free,  I  am  afraid ; 

I  run  down  to  my  chamber,  plait  my  hair, 

Weave  colors  in  it,  lay  out  all  my  gauds. 

And  in  my  mind  make  new  ones  prettier. 

You  see  I  have  two  minds,  and  both  are  foolish. 

Sometimes  a  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 

Escapes  in  wild  strange  wishes ;  presently, 

It  dwindles  to  a  little  babbling  rill 

And  plays  among  the  pebbles  and  the  flowers. 

Inez  will  have  it  I  lack  broidery. 

Says  naught  else  gives  content  to  noble  maids. 

But  I  have  never  broidered,  —  never  will. 

No,  when  I  am  a  Duchess  and  a  wife 

I  shall  ride  forth  —  may  I  not  ?  —  by  your  side. 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  you  shall  ride  upon  a  palfrey,  black 
To  match  Bavieca.    Not  Queen  Isabel 
Will  be  a  sight  more  gladdening  to  men's  eyes 
Than  my  dark  queen  Eedalma. 


100  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fed  ALMA. 

Ah,  but  yoU; 
You  are  my  king,  and  I  shall  tremble  still 
With  some  great  fear  that  throbs  within  my  love. 
Does  your  love  fear  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Ah,  yes  !  all  preciousness 
To  mortal  hearts  is  guarded  by  a  fear. 
All  love  fears  loss,  and  most  that  loss  supreme, 
Its  own  perfection,  —  seeing,  feeling  change 
From  high  to  lower,  dearer  to  less  dear. 
Can  love  be  careless  ?    If  we  lost  our  love 
What  should  we  find  ?  —  with  this  sweet  Past  torn  off, 
Our  lives  deep  scarred  just  where  their  beauty  lay  ? 
The  best  we  found  thenceforth  were  still  a  worse  : 
The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 
On  through  an  added  Present,  stretching  still 
In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 
To  life's  last  breath.    And  so  I  tremble  too 
Before  my  queen  Fedalma. 

Fedalma. 

That  is  just. 
^T  were  hard  of  Love  to  make  us  women  fear 
And  leave  you  bold.    Yet  Love  is  not  quite  even. 
For  feeble  creatures,  little  birds  and  fawns, 
Are  shaken  more  by  fear,  while  large  strong  things 
Can  bear  it  stoutly.    So  we  women  still 
Are  not  well  dealt  with.    Yet  would  I  choose  to  be 
Fedalma  loving  Silva.    You,  my  lord. 
Hold  the  worse  share,  since  you  must  love  poor  me. 
But  is  it  what  we  love,  or  how  we  love, 
That  makes  true  good  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


101 


Don  Silva. 

0  subtlety  !  for  me 
is  what  I  love  determines  how  I  love. 
The  goddess  with  pure  rites  reveals  herseK 
And  makes  pure  worship. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Do  you  worship  me  ? 
Doit  Silva. 
Ay^  with  that  best  of  worship  which  adores 
Goodness  adorable. 

Fed  ALMA  (archly). 

Goodness  obedient, 
Doing  your  will,  devoutest  worshipper  ? 

DojT  Silva. 

Yes,  —  listening  to  this  prayer.    This  very  night 
I  shall  go  forth.    And  you  will  rise  with  day 
And  wait  for  me  ? 

Fed  ALMA. 
Yes. 
Don  Silva. 

I  shall  surely  come. 
And  then  we  shall  be  married.    Now  I  go 
To  audience  fixed  in  Abderahman^s  tower. 
Farewell,  love  !  (They  embrace,) 

Fedalma. 
Some  chill  dread  possesses  me  ! 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  confidence  has  oft  been  evil  augury, 

So  dread  may  hold  a  promise.    Sweet,  farewell ! 


102 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


I  shall  send  tendance  as  I  pass^  to  bear 

TMs  casket  to  your  chamber.  —  One  more  kiss. 

{Exit.) 

Fedalma  (when  Don  Silva  is  gone^  returning  to  the 
casket  J  and  looking  dreamily  at  the  jewels), 

Yes^  now  that  good  seems  less  impossible ! 
Now  it  seems  true  that  I  shall  be  his  wife, 
Be  ever  by  his  side,  and  make  a  part 
In  all  his  purposes  

These  rubies  greet  me  Duchess.    How  they  glow  ! 

Their  prisoned  souls  are  throbbing  like  my  own. 

Perchance  they  loved  once,  were  ambitious,  proud ; 

Or  do  they  only  dream  of  wider  life, 

Ache  from  intenseness,  yearn  to  burst  the  wall 

Compact  of  crystal  splendor,  and  to  flood 

Some  wider  space  with  glory  ?    Poor,  poor  gems  ! 

We  must  be  patient  in  our  prison-house, 

And  find  our  space  in  loving.    Pray  you,  love  me. 

Let  us  be  glad  together.    And  you,  gold,  — 

{She  takes  up  the  gold  necklace.) 

You  wondrous  necklace,  —  will  you  love  me  too, 

And  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe 

From  eyes  that  hurt  ? 

{She  spreads  out  the  necklace,  meaning  to  clasp 
it  on  her  neck.  Then  pauses,  startled,  hold- 
ing it  before  her,) 

Why,  it  is  magical ! 
He  says  he  never  wore  it,  —  yet  these  lines,  — 
Nay,  if  he  had,  I  should  remember  well 
^T  was  he,  no  other.    And  these  twisted  lines,  — 
They  seem  to  speak  to  me  as  writing  would, 
To  bring  a  message  from  the  dead,  dead  past. 
What  is  their  secret  ?    Are  they  characters  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


103 


I  never  learned  them  ;  yet  they  stir  some  sense 

That  once  I  dreamed,  —  I  have  forgotten  what. 

Or  was  it  life  ?    Perhaps  I  lived  before 

In  some  strange  world  where  first  my  soul  was  shaped^ 

And  all  this  passionate  love,  and  joy,  and  pain, 

That  come,  I  know  not  whence,  and  sway  my  deeds. 

Are  dim  yet  mastering  memories,  blind  yet  strong, 

That  this  world  stirs  within  me ;  as  this  chain 

Stirs  some  strange  certainty  of  visions  gone, 

And  all  my  mind  is  as  an  eye  that  stares 

Into  the  darkness  painfully. 

(JVhile  Fed  ALMA  has  been  looking  at  the  necklace^ 
Juan  has  entered^  and  finding  himself  unob- 
served by  her,  says  at  last,) 
Senora ! 

Fed  ALMA  starts  J  and  gathering  the  necklace  together 
turns  round  — 

0  Juan,  it  is  you ! 

Juan. 

I  met  the  Duke,  — 
Had  waited  long  without,  no  matter  why,  — 
And  when  he  ordered  one  to  wait  on  you 
And  carry  forth  a  burden  you  would  give, 

1  prayed  for  leave  to  be  the  servitor. 
Don  Silva  owes  me  twenty  granted  wishes 
That  I  have  never  tendered,  lacking  aught 
That  I  could  wish  for  and  a  Duke  could  grant ; 
But  this  one  wish  to  serve  you,  weighs  as  much 
As  twenty  other  longings. 

Fed  ALMA  {smiling). 

That  sounds  well. 
You  turn  your  speeches  prettily  as  songs. 


104  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  I  will  not  forget  the  many  days 
You  have  neglected  me.    Your  pupil  learns 
But  little  from  you  now.    Her  studies  flag. 
The  Duke  says,  "  That  is  idle  Juan's  way  : 
Poets  must  rove,  —  are  honey-sucking  birds 
And  know  not  constancy.^'    Said  he  quite  true  ? 

Juan. 

0  lady,  constancy  has  kind  and  rank. 

One  man's  is  lordly,  plump,  and  bravely  clad. 

Holds  its  head  high,  and  tells  the  world  its  name : 

Another  man's  is  beggared,  must  go  bare. 

And  shiver  through  the  world,  the  jest  of  all, 

But  that  it  puts  the  motley  on,  and  plays 

Itself  the  jester.    But  I  see  you  hold 

The  Gypsy's  necklace  :  it  is  quaintly  wrought. 

Fedalma. 

The  Gypsy's  ?    Do  you  know  its  history  ? 
Juan. 

No  further  back  than  when  I  saw  it  taken 
From  off  its  wearer's  neck,  —  the  Gypsy  chief's. 

Fedalma  {eagerly). 
What !  he  who  paused,  at  tolling  of  the  bell, 
Before  me  in  the  Plaga  ? 

Juan. 

Yes,  I  saw 

His  look  fixed  on  you. 

Fedalma. 

Know  you  aught  of  him  ? 

Juan, 

Something  and  nothing,  —  as  I  know  the  sky, 
Or  some  great  story  of  the  olden  time 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


105 


That  hides  a  secret.    I  have  oft  talked  with  him. 
He  seems  to  say  much,  yet  is  but  a  wizard 
Who  draws  down  rain  by  sprinkling ;  throws  me  out 
Some  pregnant  text  that  urges  comment ;  casts 
A  sharp-hooked  question,  baited  with  such  skill 
It  needs  must  catch  the  answer. 

Fed  ALMA. 

It  is  hard 

That  such  a  man  should  be  a  prisoner,  — 
Be  chained  to  work. 

JuA?f. 

Oh,  he  is  dangerous ! 
Granada  with  this  Zarca  for  a  king 
Might  still  maim  Christendom.    He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie.    A  Gypsy,  too, 
Suckled  by  hunted  beasts,  whose  mother-milk 
Has  filled  his  veins  with  hate. 

Fedalma. 

I  thought  his  eyes 
Spoke  not  of  hatred,  —  seemed  to  say  he  bore 
The  pain  of  those  who  never  could  be  saved. 
What  if  the  Gypsies  are  but  savage  beasts 
And  must  be  hunted  ?  —  let  them  be  set  free, 
Have  benefit  of  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 
And  fight  for  life  and  offspring.    Prisoners  ! 
Oh,  they  have  made  their  fires  beside  the  streams, 
Their  walls  have  been  the  rocks,  the  pillared  pines. 
Their  roof  the  living  sky  that  breathes  with  light : 
They  may  well  hate  a  cage,  like  strong-winged  birds, 
Like  me,  who  have  no  wings,  but  only  wishes. 
I  will  beseech  the  Duke  to  set  them  free. 


106 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Juan. 

Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  to  warn, 
Or  try  to  play  the  sage.    What  if  the  Duke 
Loved  not  to  hear  of  Gypsies  ?  if  their  name 
Were  poisoned  for  him  once,  being  used  amiss  ? 
I  speak  not  as  of  fact.    Our  nimble  souls 
Can  spin  an  insubstantial  universe 
Suiting  our  mood,  and  call  it  possible, 
Sooner  than  see  one  grain  with  eye  exact 
And  give  strict  record  of  it.    Yet  by  chance 
Our  fancies  may  be  truth  and  make  us  seers. 

is  a  rare  teeming  world,  so  harvest-full, 
Even  guessing  ignorance  may  pluck  some  fruit. 
Note  what  I  say  no  further  than  will  stead 
The  siege  you  lay.    I  would  not  seem  to  tell 
Aught  that  the  Duke  may  think  and  yet  withhold : 
It  were  a  trespass  in  me. 

Fedalma. 

Pear  not,  Juan. 
Your  words  bring  daylight  with  them  when  you  speak. 
I  understand  your  care.    But  I  am  brave,  — 
Oh,  and  so  cunning  !  —  always  I  prevail. 
Now,  honored  Troubadour,  if  you  will  be 
Your  pupil's  servant,  bear  this  casket  hence. 
Nay,  not  the  necklace :  it  is  hard  to  place. 
Pray  go  before  me  5  Inez  will  be  there. 

{Exit  Juan  with  the  casket) 

Fed  ALMA  {loohing  again  at  the  necklace). 

It  is  his  past  clings  to  you,  not  my  own. 
If  we  have  each  our  angels,  good  and  bad, 
Fates,  separate  from  ourselves,  who  act  for  us 
When  we  are  blind,  or  sleep,  then  this  man's  fate, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


107 


Hovering  about  the  thing  he  used  to  wear, 

Has  laid  its  grasp  on  mine  appealingly. 

Dangerous,  is  he  ?  —  well,  a  Spanish  knight 

Would  have  his  enemy  strong,  —  defy,  not  bind  him, 

I  can  dare  all  things  when  my  soul  is  moved 

By  something  hidden  that  possesses  me. 

If  Silva  said  this  man  must  keep  his  chains 

I  should  find  ways  to  free  him,  —  disobey 

And  free  him  as  I  did  the  birds.    But  no  ! 

As  soon  as  we  are  wed,  I  ^11  put  my  prayer, 

And  he  will  not  deny  me :  he  is  good. 

Oh,  I  shall  have  much  power  as  well  as  joy ! 

Duchess  Fedalma  may  do  what  she  will. 


A  Street  hy  the  Castle,  Juan  leans  against  a  parapet^  in 
moonlight,  and  touches  his  lute  half  unconsciously, 
Pepita  stands  on  tiptoe  watching  him,  and  then  ad- 
vances till  her  shadow  falls  in  front  of  him.  He 
looks  towards  her,  A  piece  of  white  drapery  thrown 
over  her  head  catches  the  moonlight, 

J  UA^T. 

Ha !  my  Pepita !  see  how  thin  and  long 
Your  shadow  is.    'T  is  so  your  ghost  will  be, 
When  you  are  dead, 

Pepita  {crossing  herself). 

Dead  !  —  Oh  the  blessed  saints  ! 
You  would  be  glad,  then,  if  Pepita  died  ? 

Juan. 

Glad !  why  ?    Dead  maidens  are  not  merry.  Ghosts 
Are  doleful  company.    I  like  you  living. 


108  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Pepita. 

I  think  you  like  me  not.    I  wish  yon  did. 
Sometimes  you  sing  to  me  and  make  me  dance. 
Another  time  you  take  no  heed  of  me, 
Not  though  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  and  smile. 
But  Andres  would  be  glad  if  I  kissed  him, 

Juan. 

My  poor  Pepita,  I  am  old, 

Pepita. 

No,  no. 

You  have  no  wrinkles. 

Juan. 

Yes,  I  have  —  within ; 
The  wrinkles  are  within,  my  little  bird. 
Why,  I  have  lived  through  twice  a  thousand  years. 
And  kept  the  company  of  men  whose  bones 
Crumbled  before  the  blessed  Virgin  lived. 

Pepita  [crossing  her  self). 

Nay,  God  defend  us,  that  is  wicked  talk ! 

You  say  it  but  to  scorn  me.    (  With  a  sob.)   I  will  go. 

Juan. 

Stay,  little  pigeon.    I  am  not  unkind. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  wall.    Nay,  never  cry. 

Give  me  your  cheek  to  kiss.    There,  cry  no  more  ! 

(Pepita,  sitting  on  the  low  parapet,  puts  up  her 
cheek  to  Juan,  who  kisses  it,  putting  his 
hand  under  her  chin.  She  takes  his  hand 
and  kisses  it.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


109 


Pepita. 

I  like  to  kiss  your  hand.    It  is  so  good,  — 
So  smooth  and  soft. 

Juan. 

Well,  weU,  I  ^11  sing  to  you. 
Pepita. 

A  pretty  song,  loving  and  merry  ? 

Juan. 

Yes. 

(Juan  sings,) 

Memory^ 
Tell  to  me 
What  is  fair, 
Past  compare^ 

In  the  land  of  Tubal  ? 

Is  it  Springes 
Lovely  things, 
Blossoms  white, 
Rosy  dight  ? 

Then  it  is  Pepita, 

Summer's  crest 
Red-gold  tressed. 

Corn-flowers  peeping  under  ?  — 
Idle  noons. 
Lingering  moons. 
Sudden  cloud, 
Lightning^ s  shroud, 
Sudden  rain. 
Quick  again 

Smiles  where  late  was  thunder?  — 


110 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.. 


Are  all  these 
Made  to  please  ? 
So  too  is  jPepita. 

Autumn^  s  prime, 
Apple-time, 
Smooth  cheek  round ^ 
Heart  all  sound  ?  — 
Is  it  this 
You  would  kiss  ? 
Then  it  is  Fepita. 

You  can  bring 
No  sweet  thing. 
But  my  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  my  Pepita. 

Memory 
Says  to  me 
It  is  she,  — 
She  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal, 

Pepita  {seizing  Juan's  hand  again). 
Oh.,  tlien,  you  do  love  me  ? 

JuAx. 

Yes,  in  the  song, 

Pepita  {sadly). 
Not  out  of  it  ?  —  not  love  me  out  of  it  ? 

JuAisr. 

Only  a  little  out  of  it,  my  bird. 

When  I  was  singing  I  was  Andr&s,  say, 

Or  one  who  loves  you  better  still  than  Andres. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Ill 


Pepita. 

Not  yourself  ? 

Juan. 

No! 

Pepita  (throwing  his  hand  down  pettishly). 

Then  take  it  back  again ! 

I  will  not  have  it ! 

Juan. 

Listen,  little  one. 
Juan  is  not  a  living  man  all  by  himself : 
His  life  is  breathed  in  him  by  other  men. 
And  they  speak  out  of  him.    He  is  their  voice. 
Juan's  own  life  he  gave  once  quite  away. 
It  was  Pepita's  lover  singing  then,  —  not  Juan. 
We  old,  old  poets,  if  we  kept  our  hearts. 
Should  hardly  know  them  from  another  man's. 
They  shrink  to  make  room  for  the  many  more 
We  keep  within  us.    There,  now,  —  one  more  kiss, 
And  then  go  home  again. 

Pepita  (a  little  frightened^  after  letting  JuAisr  hiss  her). 

You  are  not  wicked  ? 

Juan. 

Ask  your  confessor,  —  tell  him  what  I  said. 

(Pepita  goes,  while  Juan  thrums  his  lute  again, 
and  sings,) 

Came  a  pretty  maid 

By  the  moon^s  pure  light. 
Loved  me  well,  she  said. 

Eyes  with  tears  all  bright^ 
A  pretty  maid  I 


112 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  too  late  she  strayed, 
Moonlight  pure  was  there  ^ 

She  teas  naught  but  shade 
Hiding  the  more  fair , 

The  heavenly  maid  ! 


A  vaulted  room  all  stone.  The  light  shed  from  a  high 
lamp.  Wooden  chairs,  a  desk,  hook-shelves.  The 
Prior,  in  white  frock,  a  black  rosary  luith  a  cruci- 
fix of  ebony  and  ivory  at  his  side,  is  wc Iking  up  and 
down,  holding  a  written  paper  in  his  hands,  which 
are  clasped  behind  him. 

What  if  this  witness  lies  ?  he  says  he  heard  her 

Counting  her  blasphemies  on  a  rosary, 

And  in  a  bold  discourse  with  Salomo, 

Say  that  the  Host  was  naught  but  ill-mixed  flour, 

That  it  was  mean  to  pray,  —  she  never  prayed. 

I  know  the  man  who  wrote  this  for  a  cur, 

Who  follows  Don  Diego,  sees  life's  good 

In  scraps  my  nephew  flings  to  him.    What  then  ? 

Particular  lies  may  speak  a  general  truth. 

I  guess  him  false,  but  know  her  heretic,  — 

Know  her  for  Satan's  instrument,  bedecked 

With  heathenish  charms,  luring  the  souls  of  men 

To  damning  trust  in  good  unsanctified. 

Let  her  be  prisoned,  —  questioned,  —  she  will  give 

Witness  against  herself,  that  were  this  false  .... 

{He  looks  at  the  paper  again  and  reads,  then 
again  thrusts  it  behind  him,^ 
The  matter  and  the  color  are  not  false : 
The  form  concerns  the  witness,  not  the  judge ; 
For  proof  is  gathered  by  the  sifting  mind, 
Not  given  in  crude  and  formal  circumstance. 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


113 


Suspicion  is  a  heaven-sent  lamp,  and  I,  — 
I,  watchman  of  the  Holy  Office,  bear 
That  lamp  in  trust.    I  will  keep  faithful  watch. 
The  Holy  Inquisition's  discipline 
Is  mercy,  saving  her,  if  penitent,  — 
God  grant  it !  —  else,  —  root  up  the  poison-plant, 
Though  't  were  a  lily  with  a  golden  heart ! 
This  spotless  maiden  with  her  pagan  soul 
Is  the  arch-enemy's  trap :  he  turns  his  back 
On  all  the  prostitutes,  and  watches  her 
To  see  her  poison  men  with  false  belief 
In  rebel  virtues.    She  has  poisoned  Silva ; 
His  shifting  mind,  dangerous  in  fitfulness, 
Strong  in  the  contradiction  of  itself. 
Carries  his  young  ambitions  wearily. 
As  holy  vows  regretted.    Once  he  seemed 
The  fresh-oped  flower  of  Christian  knighthood,  born 
For  feats  of  holy  daring  ;  and  I  said : 
^'  That  half  of  life  which  I,  as  monk,  renounce, 
Shall  be  fulfilled  in  him :  Silva  will  be 
That  saintly  noble,  that  wise  warrior, 
That  blameless  excellence  in  worldly  gifts 
I  would  have  been,  had  I  not  asked  to  live 
The  higher  life  of  man  impersonal 
Who  reigns  o'er  all  things  by  refusing  all. 
What  is  his  promise  now  ?  Apostasy 
From  every  high  intent :  —  languid,  nay,  gone, 
The  prompt  devoutness  of  a  generous  heart. 
The  strong  obedience  of  a  reverent  will, 
That  breathes  the  Church's  air  and  sees  her  light, 
He  peers  and  strains  with  feeble  questioning, 
Or  else  he  jests.    He  thinks  I  know  it  not,  — 
I  who  have  read  the  history  of  his  lapse. 
As  clear  as  it  is  writ  in  the  angel's  book. 
He  will  defy  me,  —  flings  great  words  at  me,  — 
8 


114  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Me  who  have  governed  all  our  house^s  acts, 

Since  I,  a  striplings  ruled  his  stripling  father. 

This  maiden  is  the  cause,  and  if  they  wed, 

The  Holy  War  may  count  a  captain  lost. 

Tor  better  he  were  dead  than  keep  his  place, 

And  fill  it  infamously  :  in  God's  war 

Slackness  is  infamy.    Shall  I  stand  by 

And  let  the  tempter  win  ?  defraud  Christ's  cause. 

And  blot  his  banner  ?  —  all  for  scruples  weak 

Of  pity  towards  their  young  and  frolicsome  blood ; 

Or  nice  discrimination  of  the  tool 

By  which  my  hand  shall  work  a  sacred  rescue  ? 

The  fence  of  rules  is  for  the  purblind  crowd ; 

They  walk  by  averaged  precepts ;  )Sovereign  men. 

Seeing  by  God's  light,  see  the  general 

By  seeing  all  the  special,  —  own  no  rule 

But  their  full  vision  of  the  moment's  worth. 

^T  is  so  God  governs,  using  wicked  men,  — 

Nay,  scheming  fiends,  to  work  his  purposes. 

Evil  that  good  may  come  ?    Measure  the  good 

Before  you  say  what 's  evil.    Perjury  ? 

I  scorn  the  perjurer,  but  I  will  use  him 

To  serve  the  holy  truth.    There  is  no  lie 

Save  in  his  soul,  and  let  his  soul  be  judged. 

I  know  the  truth,  and  act  upon  the  truth. 

0  God,  thou  knowest  that  my  will  is  pure. 

Thy  servant  owns  naught  for  himself,  his  wealth 

Is  but  obedience.    And  I  have  sinned 

In  keeping  small  respects  of  human  love,  — 

Calling  it  mercy.    Mercy  ?    Where  evil  is 

True  mercy  must  be  terrible.    Mercy  would  save. 

Save  whom  ?    Save  serpents,  locusts,  wolves  ? 

Or  out  of  pity  let  the  idiots  gorge 

Within  a  famished  town  ?    Or  save  the  gains 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


115 


Of  men  who  trade  in  poison  lest  they  starve  ? 

Save  all  things  mean  and  foul  that  clog  the  earth 

Stifling  the  better  ?    Save  the  fools  who  cling 

For  refuge  round  their  hideous  idol's  limbs, 

So  leave  the  idol  grinning  unconsumed, 

And  save  the  fools  to  breed  idolaters  ? 

Oh  mercy  worthy  of  the  licking  hound 

That  knows  no  future  but  its  feeding  time ! 

Mercy  has  eyes  that  pierce  the  ages,  —  sees 

From  heights  divine  of  the  eternal  purpose 

Far-scattered  consequence  in  its  vast  sum ; 

Chooses  to  save,  but  with  illumined  vision 

Sees  that  to  save  is  greatly  to  destroy. 

'T  is  so  the  Holy  Inquisition  sees  :  its  wrath 

Is  fed  from  the  strong  heart  of  wisest  love. 

For  love  must  needs  make  hatred.    He  who  loves 

God  and  his  law  must  hate  the  foes  of  God. 

And  I  have  sinned  in  being  merciful : 

Being  slack  in  hate,  I  have  been  slack  in  love. 

(He  takes  the  crucifix  and  holds  it  up  before  him.) 
Thou  shuddering,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  God, 
Thou  Man  of  Sorrows,  scourged  and  bruised  and  torn, 
Suffering  to  save,  —  wilt  thou  not  judge  the  world  ? 
This  arm  which  held  the  children,  this  pale  hand 
That  gently  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 
And  opened  passive  to  the  cruel  nail. 
Shall  one  day  stretch  to  leftward  of  thy  throne, 
Charged  with  the  power  that  makes  the  lightning  strong. 
And  hurl  thy  foes  to  everlasting  hell. 
And  thou.  Immaculate  Mother,  Virgin  mild. 
Thou  sevenfold-pierced,  thou  pitying,  pleading  Queen, 
Shalt  see  and  smile,  while  the  black  filthy  souls 
Sink  with  foul  weight  to  their  eternal  place, 
Purging  the  Holy  Light.    Yea,  I  have  sinned 
And  called  it  mercy.    But  I  shrink  no  more. 


116  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To-morrow  morn  this  temptress  sliall  be  safe 
Under  tlie  Holy  Inquisition's  key. 
He  thinks  to  wed  her,  and  defy  me  then, 
She  being  shielded  by  our  house's  name. 
But  he  shall  never  wed  her.    I  have  said. 

The  time  is  come.    Exurge,  Domine, 
Judica  causam  tuam.    Let  thy  foes 
Be  driven  as  the  smoke  before  the  wind, 
And  melt  like  wax  upon  the  furnace  lip ! 


A  large  chamher  richly  furnished  opening  on  a  terrace- 
garden,  the  trees  visible  througji  the  window  in  faint 
moonlight.  Flowers  hanging  about  the  window,  lit  up 
by  the  tapers.  The  casket  of  jewels  open  on  a  table. 
The  gold  necMace  lying  near.  Fedalma,  splendidly 
dressed  and  adorned  with  pearls  and  rubies,  is  walk- 
ing up  and  down. 

So  soft  a  night  was  never  made  for  sleep, 

But  for  the  waking  of  the  finer  sense 

To  every  murmuring  and  gentle  sound, 

To  subtlest  odors,  pulses,  visitings 

That  touch  our  frames  with  wings  too  delicate 

To  be  discerned  amid  the  blare  of  day. 

(She  pauses  near  the  window  to  gather  some  jas- 
miiie :  then  walks  again.) 
Surely  these  flowers  keep  happy  watch,  —  their  breath 
Is  their  fond  memory  of  the  loving  light. 
I  often  rue  the  hours  I  lose  in  sleep : 
It  is  a  bliss  too  brief,  only  to  see 
This  glorious  world,  to  hear  the  voice  of  love, 
To  feel  the  touch,  the  breath  of  tenderness, 
And  then  to  rest  as  from  a  spectacle. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


117 


I  need  the  curtained  stillness  of  the  night 

To  live  through  all  my  happy  hours  again 

With  more  selection^  —  cull  them  quite  away 

From  blemished  moments.    Then  in  loneliness 

The  face  that  bent  before  me  in  the  day 

Rises  in  its  own  light,  more  vivid  seems 

Painted  upon  the  dark,  and  ceaseless  glows 

With  sweet  solemnity  of  gazing  love, 

Till  like  the  heavenly  blue  it  seems  to  grow 

Nearer,  more  kindred,  and  more  cherishing. 

Mingling  with  all  my  being.    Then  the  words, 

The  tender  low-toned  words  come  back  again, 

With  repetition  welcome  as  the  chime 

Of  softly  hurrying  brooks,  — My  only  love,  — 

My  love  while  life  shall  last,  —  my  own  Fedalma !  ^' 

Oh,  it  is  mine,  —  the  joy  that  once  has  been ! 

Poor  eager  hope  is  but  a  stammerer. 

Must  listen  dumbly  to  great  memory. 

Who  makes  our  bliss  the  sweeter  by  her  telling. 

{She  pauses  a  moment  musingly.) 
But  that  dumb  hope  is  still  a  sleeping  guard 
Whose  quiet  rhythmic  breath  saves  me  from  dread 
In  this  fair  paradise.    For  if  the  earth 
Broke  off  with  flower-fringed  edge,  visibly  sheer, 
Leaving  no  footing  for  my  forward  step 
But  empty  blackness  .... 

Nay,  there  is  no  fear,  — 
They  will  renew  themselves,  day  and  my  joy. 
And  all  that  past  which  is  securely  mine, 
Will  be  the  hidden  root  that  nourishes 
Our  still  unfolding,  ever-ripening  love  ! 

(  While  she  is  uttering  the  last  ivords,  a  little  bird 
falls  softly  on  the  floor  behind  her  ;  she  hears 
the  light  sound  of  its  fall  and  turns  round.) 


118 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Did  something  enter  ?  .  .  .  . 

Yes,  this  little  bird  .... 

{She  lifts  it.) 
Dead  and  yet  warm  :  't  was  seeking  sanctuary, 
And  died,  perhaps  of  fright,  at  the  altar  foot. 
Stay,  there  is  something  tied  beneath  the  wing ! 
A  strip  of  linen,  streaked  with  blood,  —  what  blood  ? 
The  streaks  are  written  words,  —  are  sent  to  me,  — 

0  God,  are  sent  to  me  !  Dear  child,  Fedalma, 
Be  brave,  give  no  alarm,  —  your  Father  comes  I 

(She  lets  the  bird  fall  again.) 

My  Father  ....  comes  ....  my  Father  

{She  turns  in  quive^ng  expectation  toward  the 
window.  There  %s~perfect  stillness  a  few  mo- 
ments  until  Zarca  appears  at  the  window. 
He  enters  quickly  and  noiselessly;  then  stands 
still  at  his  full  height,  and  at  a  distance  from 
Fed  ALMA.) 

Fed  ALMA  (m  a  low  disthict  tone  of  terror). 

It  is  he ! 

1  said  his  fate  had  laid  its  hold  on  mine. 

Zarca  {advancing  a  step  or  two). 
Yon  know,  then,  who  I  am  ? 

Fedalma. 

The  prisoner,  — 
He  whom  I  saw  in  fetters,  —  and  this  necklace  — 

Zarca. 

Was  played  with  by  your  fingers  when  it  hung 
About  my  neck,  full  fifteen  years  ago  ! 

Fedalma  {starts,  looks  at  the  necklace  and  handles 

it,  then  speaks  as  if  unconsciously). 
Full  fifteen  years  ago  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


119 


Zakca. 

The  very  day 
I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a  tiny  gown 
Of  scarlet  cloth  with  golden  broidery : 
'T  was  clasped  in  front  by  coins,  —  two  golden  coins. 
The  one  towards  the  left  was  split  in  two 
Across  the  King's  head,  right  from  brow  to  nape, 
A  dent  i'  the  middle  nicking  in  the  cheek. 
You  see  I  know  the  little  gown  by  heart. 

Fed  ALMA  (growing  paler  and  more  tremulous). 
Yes.    It  is  true,  —  I  have  the  gown,  —  the  clasps,  — 
The  braid,  —  sore  tarnished :  —  it  is  long  ago ! 

Zarca. 

But  yesterday  to  me  ;  for  till  to-day 

I  saw  you  always  as  that  little  child. 

And  when  they  took  my  necklace  from  me,  still 

Your  fingers  played  about  it  on  my  neck, 

And  still  those  buds  of  fingers  on  your  feet 

Caught  in  its  meshes  as  you  seemed  to  climb 

Up  to  my  shoulder.    You  were  not  stolen  all. 

You  had  a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart   , 

(Fedalma,  letting  fall  the  necklace^  makes  an 
impulsive  movement  towards  him  with  out- 
stretched hands.) 
For  the  Zincalo  loves  his  children  well. 

Fedalma  {shrinking,  trembling,  and  letting  fall  her 
hands). 

How  came  it  that  you  sought  me,  —  no,  —  I  mean 
How  came  it  that  you  knew  me,  —  that  you  lost  me  ? 

Zarca  (standing  perfectly  still). 
Poor  child !    I  see,  I  see,  — your  ragged  father 
Is  welcome  as  the  piercing  wintry  wind 


120  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Within  this  silken  chamber.    It  is  well. 

I  would  not  have  a  child  who  stooped  to  feign^ 

And  aped  a  sudden  love.    True  hate  were  better. 

Fed  ALMA  (raising  her  eyes  towards  him^  with  a  flash 
of  admiration,  and  looking  at  him  fixedly). 
Father,  how  was  it  that  we  lost  each  other  ? 

Zaroa. 

I  lost  you  as  a  man  may  lose  a  diamond 

Wherein  he  has  compressed  his  total  wealth, 

Or  the  right  hand  whose  cunning  makes  him  great : 

I  lost  you  by  a  trivial  accident. 

Marauding  Spaniards,  sweeping  like  a  storm 

Over  a  spot  within  the  Moorish  bounds, 

Near  where  our  camp  lay,  doubtless  snatched  you  up. 

When  Zind,  your  nurse,  as  she  confessed,  was  urged 

By  burning  thirst  to  wander  towards  the  stream. 

And  leave  you  on  the  sand  some  paces  off 

Playing  with  pebbles,  while  she  dog-like  lapped. 

'T  was  so  I  lost  you,  —  never  saw  you  more 

Until  to-day  I  saw  you  dancing !  Saw 

The  child  of  the  Zincalo  making  sport 

For  those  who  spit  upon  her  people's  name. 

Fedalma  {vehemently). 

It  was  not  sport.    What  if  the  world  looked  on  ?  — 
I  danced  for  joy,  —  for  love  of  all  the  world. 
But  when  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  was  stabbed,  — 
Stabbed  with  your  pain.     I  wondered  ....  now  I 

know  .... 
It  was  my  father's  pain. 

(^She  pauses  a  moment  with  eyes  bent  downward, 
during  which  Zarca  examines  her  face.  Then 
she  says  quickly,) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


121 


How  were  you  sure 

At  once  I  was  your  child  ? 

Zarca. 

Oh,  I  had  witness  strong 
As  any  Cadi  needs,  before  I  saw  you ! 
I  fitted  all  my  memories  with  the  chat 
Of  one  named  Juan,  —  one  whose  rapid  talk 
Showers  like  the  blossoms  from  a  light-twigged  shrub, 
If  you  but  coughed  beside  it.    I  learned  all 
The  story  of  your  Spanish  nurture,  — ■  all 
The  promise  of  your  fortune.    When  at  last 
I  fronted  you,  my  little  maid  full-grown, 
Belief  was  turned  to  vision :  then  I  saw 
That  she  whom  Spaniards  called  the  bright  Fedalma,  — 
The  little  red-frocked  foundling  three  years  old,  — 
Grown  to  such  perfectness  the  Christian  Duke 
Had  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess,  —  was  the  child, 
Sole  offspring  of  my  flesh,  that  Lambra  bore 
One  hour  before  the  Christian,  hunting  us. 
Hurried  her  on  to  death.    Therefore  I  sought  you, 
Therefore  I  come  to  claim  you  —  claim  my  child, 
Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  who  robbed, 
But  from  herself. 

(Fedalma  has  gradually  approached  close  to  Zarca, 
and  with  a  low  sob  sinks  on  her  knees  before 
him.  He  stoops  to  kiss  her  brow,  and  lays  his 
hands  on  her  head.) 

Zarca  {with  solemn  tenderness). 
Then  my  child  owns  her  father  ? 

Fedalma. 

Father  !  yes. 

I  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  spring  from. 


122  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Zarca. 

There  my  daughter  spoke. 
Away  then  with  these  rubies  ! 

(He  seizes  the  circlet  of  rubies  and  flings  it  on  the 
ground,  Fedalma,  starting  from  the  ground 
with  strong  emotion^  shrinks  backward.) 

Such  a  crown 

Is  infamy  on  a  Zincala's  brow. 

It  is  her  people's  blood,  decking  her  shame. 

Fedalma  (after  a  moment,  slowly  and  distinctly^  as  if 

accepting  a  doom). 
Then  ....  I  am  ....  a  Zincala  ? 

Zarca. 

Of  a  blood 

Unmixed  as  virgin  wine-juice. 

Fedalma. 

Of  a  race 

More  outcast  and  despised  than  Moor  or  Jew  ? 
Zarca. 

Yes  :  wanderers  whom  no  god  took  knowledge  of 
To  give  them  laws,  to  fight  for  them,  or  blight 
Another  race  to  make  them  ampler  room ; 
A  people  with  no  home  even  in  memory, 
No  dimmest  lore  of  giant  ancestors 
To  make  a  common  hearth  for  piety. 

Fed  alma. 

A  race  that  lives  on  prey  as  foxes  do 

With  stealthy,  petty  rapine :  so  despised, 

It  is  not  persecuted,  only  spurned, 

Crushed  underfoot,  warred  on  by  chance  like  rats, 

Or  swarming  flies,  or  reptiles  of  the  sea 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


123 


Dragged  in  the  net  unsought,  and  flung  far  off 
To  perish  as  they  may  ? 

Zarca. 

You  paint  us  well. 
So  abject  are  the  men  whose  blood  we  share ; 
Untutoredj  unbefriended,  unendowed ; 
No  favorites  of  heaven  or  of  men. 
Therefore  I  cling  to  them !    Therefore  no  lure 
Shall  draw  me  to  disown  them,  or  forsake 
The  meagre  wandering  herd  that  lows  for  help 
And  needs  me  for  its  guide,  to  seek  my  pasture 
Among  the  well-fed  beeves  that  graze  at  will. 
Because  our  race  have  no  great  memories, 
I  will  so  live  they  shall  remember  me 
For  deeds  of  such  divine  beneficence 
As  rivers  have,  that  teach  men  what  is  good 
By  blessing  them.    I  have  been  schooled, — have  caught 
Lore  from  the  Hebrew,  deftness  from  the  Moor,  — 
Know  the  rich  heritage,  the  milder  life, 
Of  nations  fathered  by  a  mighty  Past ; 
But  were  our  race  accursed  (as  they  who  make 
Good  luck  a  god  count  all  unlucky  men) 
I  would  espouse  their  curse  sooner  than  take 
My  gifts  from  brethren  naked  of  all  good, 
And  lend  them  to  the  rich  for  usury. 

(Fedalma  again  advances,  and  putting  forth  her 
right  hand  grasps  Zarca's  left.  He  places  his 
other  hand  on  her  shoulder.  They  stand  so, 
looking  at  each  other.) 

Zarca. 

And  you,  my  child  ?  are  you  of  other  mind. 
Choosing  forgetfulness,  hating  the  truth 
That  says  you  are  akin  to  needy  men  ?  — 


124  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


AVishing  your  father  were  some  Christian  Duke, 
Who  could  hang  Gypsies  when  their  task  was  done, 
While  you,  his  daughter,  were  not  bound  to  care  ? 

Pedalma  (in  a  troubled,  eager  voice) . 

No,  I  should  always  care  —  I  cared  for  you  — 
For  all,  before  I  dreamed  .... 

Zarca, 

Before  you  dreamed 
You  were  a  born  Zincala,  — in  the  bonds 
Of  the  Zincali's  faith. 

Fedalma  {bitterly), 

Zincali's  faith  ? 
Men  say  they  have  none. 

Zarca. 

Oh,  it  is  a  faith 
Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts. 
Paith  to  each  other :  the  fidelity 
Of  fellow-wanderers  in  a  desert  place 
Who  share  the  same  dire  thirst,  and  therefore  share 
The  scanty  water  :  the  fidelity 
Of  men  whose  pulses  leap  with  kindred  fire, 
Who  in  the  flash  of  eyes,  the  clasp  of  hands, 
The  speech  that  even  in  lying  tells  the  truth 
Of  heritage  inevitable  as  past  deeds. 
Nay,  in  the  silent  bodily  presence  feel 
The  mystic  stirring  of  a  common  life 
Which  makes  the  many  one :  fidelity 
To  that  deep  consecrating  oath  our  sponsor  Fate 
Made  through  our  infant  breath  when  we  were  born. 
The  fellow-heirs  of  that  small  island.  Life, 
Where  we  must  dig  and  soy/  and  reap  with  brothers. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


125 


Fear  thou  that  oath,  my  daughter,  —  nay,  not  fear, 

But  love  it ;  for  the  sanctity  of  oaths 

Lies  not  in  lightning  that  avenges  them. 

But  in  the  injury  wrought  by  broken  bonds 

And  in  the  garnered  good  of  human  trust. 

And  you  have  sworn,  —  even  with  your  infant  breath 

You  too  were  pledged  .... 

Fedalma  (lets  go  Zarca's  hand  and  sinks  backward 
on  her  knees^  with  bent  head,  as  if  before  some  im- 
pending crushing  weight). 

What  have  I  sworn  ? 

Zarca. 

To  live  the  life  of  the  Zincala's  child : 

The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 

The  savior  of  his  tribe,  or  if  he  fail 

Will  choose  to  fail  rather  than  basely  win 

The  prize  of  renegades.    Nay  —  will  not  choose  — 

Is  there  a  choice  for  strong  souls  to  be  weak  ? 

For  men  erect  to  crawl  like  hissing  snakes  ? 

I  choose  not,  —  I  am  Zarca.    Let  him  choose 

Who  halts  and  wavers,  having  appetite 

To  feed  on  garbage.    You,  my  child,  —  are  you 

Halting  and  wavering  ? 

Fedalma  (raising  her  head). 

Say  what  is  my  task  ? 

Zarca. 

To  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe : 
To  help  me  bless  a  race  taught  by  no  prophet, 
And  make  their  name,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn, 
A  glorious  banner  floating  in  their  midst, 
Stirring  the  air  they  breathe  with  impulses 
Of  generous  pride,  exalting  fellowship 


126 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Until  it  soars  to  magnanimity. 

I  ^11  guide  my  brethren  forth,  to  their  new  land, 

Where  they  shall  plant  and  sow  and  reap  their  own, 

Serving  each  other's  needs,  and  so  be  spurred 

To  skill  in  all  the  arts  that  succor  life ; 

Where  we  may  kindle  our  first  altar-fire 

From  settled  hearths,  and  call  our  Holy  Place 

The  hearth  that  binds  us  in  one  family. 

That  land  awaits  them  :  they  await  their  chief,  — 

Me  who  am  prisoned.    All  depends  on  you. 

Fed  ALMA  (rising  to  her  full  height,  and  looking  solr 
emnly  at  Zarca). 

Father,  your  child  is  ready  !    She  will  not 
Forsake  her  kindred :  she  will  brave  all  scorn 
Sooner  than  scorn  herself.    Let  Spaniards  all, 
Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 

Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves.'^ 
Is  it  not  written  so  of  them  ?    They,  too, 
Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse, 
Till  Moses,  Christ,  and  Mahomet  were  born, 
Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived. 
And  lived  to  save  their  people.    Father,  listen. 
To-morrow  the  Duke  weds  me  secretly  : 
But  straight  he  will  present  me  as  his  wife 
To  all  his  household,  cavaliers  and  dames 
And  noble  pages.    Then  I  will  declare 
Before  them  all :  "  I  am  his  daughter,  his. 
The  Gypsy's,  owner  of  this  golden  badge." 
Then  I  shall  win  your  freedom ;  then  the  Duke,  — 
Why,  he  will  be  your  son !  —  will  send  you  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.    Then,  before  all  eyes 
I  '11  clasp  this  badge  on  you,  and  lift  my  brow 
For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying  by  that  sign, 
"  I  glory  in  my  father."    This,  to-morrow. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


127 


Zarca. 

A  woman's  dream,  —  who  thinks  by  smiling  well 
To  ripen  figs  in  frost.    What !  marry  first, 
And  then  proclaim  your  birth  ?    Enslave  yourself 
To  use  your  freedom  ?    Share  another's  name, 
Then  treat  it  as  you  will  ?    How  will  that  tune 
Eing  in  your  bridegroom's  ears,  —  that  sudden  song 
Of  triumph  in  your  Gypsy  father  ? 

Fedalma  (discouraged), 

Nay, 

I  meant  not  so.    We  marry  hastily  — 

Yet  there  is  time  — there  will  be  :  —  in  less  space 

Than  he  can  take  to  look  at  me,  I  '11  speak 

And  tell  him  all.    Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  ! 

His  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  all  hate ; 

Nay,  stronger  than  my  love,  which  cannot  sway 

Demons  that  haunt  me,  — tempt  me  to  rebel. 

Were  he  Fedalma  and  I  Silva,  he 

Could  love  confession,  prayers,  and  tonsured  monks 

If  my  soul  craved  them.    He  will  never  hate 

The  race  that  bore  him  what  he  loves  the  most. 

I  shall  but  do  more  strongly  what  I  will, 

Having  his  will  to  help  me.    And  to-morrow, 

Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat, 

You,  every  chained  Zincalo,  shall  be  free. 

Zarca  {coming  nearer  to  her^  and  laying  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder). 

Too  late,  too  poor  a  service  that,  my  child  ! 

Not  so  the  woman  who  would  save  her  tribe 

Must  help  its  heroes,  —  not  by  wordy  breath, 

By  easy  prayers  strong  in  a  lover's  ear. 

By  showering  wreaths  and  sweets  and  wafted  kisses, 

And  then,  when  all  the  smiling  work  is  done, 


128 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Turning  to  rest  upon  her  down  again, 
And  whisper  languid  pity  for  her  race 
Upon  the  bosom  of  her  alien  spouse. 
Not  to  such  petty  mercies  as  can  fall 
Twixt  stitch  and  stitch  of  silken  broidery  work, 
Such  miracles  of  mitred  saints  who  pause 
Beneath  their  gilded  canopy  to  heal 
A  man  sun-stricken  :  not  to  such  trim  merit 
As  soils  its  dainty  shoes  for  charity 
And  simpers  meekly  at  the  pious  stain, 
But  never  trod  with  naked  bleeding  feet 
Where  no  man  praised  it,  and  where  no  Church  blessed: 
Not  to  such  almsdeedis  fit  for  holidays 
Were  you,  my  daughter,  consecrated,  —  bound 
By  laws  that,  breaking,  you  will  dip  your  bread 
In  murdered  brother's  blood  and  call  it  sweet,  — 
When  you  were  born  in  the  Zincalo's  tent, 
And  lifted  up  in  sight  of  all  your  tribe. 
Who  greeted  you  with  shouts  of  loyal  joy, 
Sole  offspring  of  the  chief  in  whom  they  trust 
As  in  the  oft-tried  never-failing  flint 
They  strike  their  fire  from.    Other  work  is  yours. 
Fedalma. 

What  work  ?  —  what  is  it  that  you  ask  of  me  ? 

Zarca. 

A  work  as  pregnant  as  the  act  of  men 

Who  set  their  ships  aflame  and  spring  to  land, 

A  fatal  deed  .... 

Fed  ALMA. 
Stay  !  never  utter  it ! 
If  it  can  part  my  lot  from  his  whose  love 
Has  chosen  me.    Talk  not  of  oaths,  of  birth, 
Of  men  as  numerous  as  the  dim  white  stars,  — 
As  cold  and  distant,  too,  for  my  heart's  pulse. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


129 


No  ills  on  earth,  though  you  should  count  them  up 
With  grains  to  make  a  mountain,  can  outweigh 
For  me,  his  ill  who  is  my  supreme  love. 
All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames, 
Making  me  shudder  at  an  unfelt  smart, 
But  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  fire 
That  scorches  me. 

Zarca. 

I  know,  I  know  it  well,  — 
The  first  young  passionate  wail  of  spirits  called 
To  some  great  destiny.    In  vain,  my  daughter ! 
Lay  the  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 
The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 
Vibrate  prophetic  in  its  kindred  frame. 
And  make  it  spread  its  wings  and  poise  itself 
Tor  the  eagle's  flight.    Hear  what  you  have  to  do. 

(Fed  ALMA  breaks  from  him  and  stands  half  averted, 

as  if  she  dreaded  the  effect  of  his  looks  and 

words,) 

My  comrades  even  now  file  off  their  chains 
In  a  low  turret  by  the  battlements, 
Where  we  were  locked  with  slight  and  sleepy  guard,  — 
We  who  had  files  hid  in  our  shaggy  hair. 
And  possible  ropes  that  waited  but  our  will 
In  half  our  garments.    Oh,  the  Moorish  blood 
Euns  thick  and  warm  to  us,  though  thinned  by  chrism. 
I  found  a  friend  among  our  jailers,  —  one 
Who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  the  Moor's  ally. 
I  know  the  secrets  of  this  fortress.  Listen. 
Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair, 
Cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  at  one  point 
In  its  slow  straggling  course  it  branches  off 
Towards  a  low  wooden  door,  that  art  has  bossed 
To  such  unevenness,  it  seems  one  piece 

9 


130  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  the  rough-hewn  rock.    Opened,  it  leads 
Through  a  broad  passage  burrowed  underground 
A  good  half-mile  out  to  the  open  plain : 
Made  for  escape,  in  dire  extremity 
From  siege  or  burning,  of  the  house's  wealth 
In  women  or  in  gold.    To  find  that  door 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  number  of  the  steps 
Just  to  the  turning-point ;  to  open  it, 
Keeds  one  who  knows  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 
You  have  that  secret :  you  will  ope  that  door, 
And  fly  with  us. 

Fedalma  {receding  a  little^  and  gathering  herself  up 
in  an  attitude  of  resolve  opposite  to  Zarca). 
No,  I  will  never  fly  ! 
Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  love.    I  swear  to  set  you  free. 
Ask  for  no  more  ;  it  is  not  possible. 
^Father,  my  soul  is  not  too  base  to  ring 
At  touch  of  your  great  thoughts  ;  nay,  in  my  blood 
There  streams  the  sense  unspeakable  of  kind, 
As  leopard  feels  at  ease  with  leopard.    But,  — 
Look  at  these  hands  !    You  say  when  they  were  little 
They  played  about  the  gold  upon  your  neck. 
I  do  believe  it,  for  their  tiny  pulse 
Made  record  of  it  in  the  inmost  coil 
Of  growing  memory.    But  see  them  now ! 
Oh  they  have  made  fresh  record ;  twined  themselves 
With  other  throbbing  hands  whose  pulses  feed 
Not  memories  only  but  a  blended  life,  — 
Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 
Have  pity  on  me,  father  !    Wait  the  morning ; 
Say  you  will  wait  the  morning.    I  will  win 
Your  freedom  openly  :  you  shall  go  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.    Silva  will  deny 
Naught  to  my  asking  .  .  .  , 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


131 


Zarca  {with  contemptuous  decision). 

Till  you  ask  him  aught 
Wherein  he  is  powerless.    Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town, 
And  forfeits  all  the  prizes  of  a  foray 
To  get  his  bridal  pleasure  with  a  bride 
Too  low  for  him.    They  '11  murmur  more  and  louder 
If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 
For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed,  — 
Now,  too,  when  Spanish  hands  are  scanty.  What, 
Turn  Gypsies  loose  instead  of  hanging  them  ! 
'T  is  flat  against  the  edict.    N"ay,  perchance 
Murmurs  aloud  may  turn  to  silent  threats 
Of  some  well-sharpened  dagger ;  for  your  Duke 
Has  to  his  heir  a  pious  cousin,  who  deems 
The  Cross  were  better  served  if  he  were  Duke. 
Such  good  you  '11  work  your  lover  by  your  prayers. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Then,  I  will  free  you  now  !    You  shall  be  safe, 
Nor  he  be  blamed,  save  for  his  love  to  me. 
I  will  declare  what  I  have  done :  the  deed 
May  put  our  marriage  off  

Zarca. 

Ay,  till  the  time 
When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa, 
And  he  be  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 
You  cannot  free  us  and  come  back  to  him. 

Fed  alma. 

And  why  ? 

Zarca. 

I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth. 
Fed  ALMA. 

You  tell  me  that  ? 


132 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Zarca. 

Yes,  for  I     have  you  choose  ; 
Though,  being  of  the  blood  you  are,  — my  blood,  — 
You  have  no  right  to  choose. 

Fedalma. 

I  only  owe 

A  daughter's  debt ;  I  was  not  born  a  slave. 

Zarca. 

No,  not  a  slave  ;  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 
^T  is  a  compulsion  of  a  higher  sort. 
Whose  fetters  are  the  net  invisible 
That  holds  all  life  together.    Eoyal  deeds 
May  make  long  destinies  for  multitudes, 
And  you  are  called  to  do  them.    You  belong 
Not  to  the  petty  round  of  circumstance 
That  makes  a  woman's  lot,  but  to  your  tribe, 
Who  trust  in  me  and  in  my  blood  with  trust 
That  men  call  blind ;  but  it  is  only  blind 
As  unyeaned  reason  is,  that  growing  stirs 
Within  the  womb  of  superstition. 

Fed  ALMA. 

No! 

I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me  —  whom  I  love  — 
Who  chose  me  —  whom  I  chose  — to  whom  I  pledged 
A  woman's  truth.    And  that  is  nature  too, 
Issuing  a  fresher  law  than  laws  of  birth. 

Zarca. 

Well,  then,  unmake  yourself  from  a  Zincala,  — 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine  ! 
Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white  ; 
Bound  your  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten  looks ; 
Walk  mincingly,  and  smirk,  and  twitch  your  robe  : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


133 


Unmake  yourself,  —  doff  all  the  eagle  plumes 
And  be  a  parrot,  chained  to  a  ring  that  slips 
Upon  a  Spaniard's  thumb,  at  will  of  his 
That  you  should  prattle  o'er  his  words  again ! 
Get  a  small  heart  that  flutters  at  the  smiles 
Of  that  plump  penitent  and  greedy  saint 
Who  breaks  all  treaties  in  the  name  of  God, 
Saves  souls  by  confiscation,  sends  to  heaven 
The  altar-fumes  of  burning  heretics, 
And  chaffers  with  the  Levite  for  the  gold ; 
Holds  Gypsies  beasts  unfit  for  sacrifice, 
So  sweeps  them  out  like  worms  alive  or  dead. 
Go,  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  her  presence  !  — 
Conscious  Zincala,  smile  at  your  rare  luck, 
While  half  your  brethren  .... 

Fedalma. 

I  am  not  so  vile  ! 
It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling, 
Not  to  the  flaring  tow  of  gala-lights  : 
It  is  to  him  —  my  love  —  the  face  of  day. 

Zarca. 

What,  will  you  part  him  from  the  air  he  breathes, 
Never  inhale  with  him  although  you  kiss  him  ? 
Will  you  adopt  a  soul  without  its  thoughts. 
Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Till  then  you  cannot  wed  a  Spanish  Duke 
And  not  wed  shame  at  mention  of  your  race. 
And  not  wed  hardness  to  their  miseries,  — 
Nay,  not  wed  murder.    Would  you  save  my  life 
Yet  stab  my  purpose  ?  maim  my  every  limb. 
Put  out  my  eyes,  and  turn  me  loose  to  feed  ? 
Is  that  salvation  ?  rather  drink  my  blood. 
That  child  of  mine  who  weds  my  enemy,  — 
Adores  a  God  who  took  no  heed  of  Gypsies,  — 


134 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Forsakes  her  people,  leaves  their  poverty 

To  join  the  luckier  crowd  that  mocks  their  woes,  — 

That  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess, 

Murdering  her  father's  hope,  her  people's  trust. 

Such  draughts  are  mingled  in  your  cup  of  love. 

And  when  you  have  become  a  thing  so  poor, 

Your  life  is  all  a  fashion  without  law 

Save  frail  conjecture  of  a  changing  wish. 

Your  worshipped  sun,  your  smiling  face  of  day, 

Will  turn  to  cloudiness,  and  you  will  shiver 

In  your  thin  finery  of  vain  desire. 

Men  call  his  passion  madness ;  and  he,  too, 

May  learn  to  think  it  madness  :  't  is  a  thought 

Of  ducal  sanity. 

Fed  ALMA. 
No,  he  is  true  ! 
And  if  I  part  from  him  I  part  from  joy. 
Oh,  it  was  morning  with  us,  —  I  seemed  young. 
But  now  I  know  I  am  an  aged  sorrow,  — 
My  people's  sorrow.    Father,  since  I  am  yours,  — 
Since  I  must  walk  an  unslain  sacrifice, 
Carrying  the  knife  within  me,  quivering,  — 
Put  cords  upon  me,  drag  me  to  the  doom 
My  birth  has  laid  upon  me.    See,  I  kneel : 
I  cannot  will  to  go. 

Zarca. 

Will  then  to  stay ! 
Say  you  will  take  your  better,  painted  such 
By  blind  desire,  and  choose  the  hideous  worse 
For  thousands  who  were  happier  but  for  you. 
My  thirty  followers  are  assembled  now 
Without  this  terrace  :  I  your  father  wait 
That  you  may  lead  us  forth  to  liberty,  — 
E/Cstore  me  to  my  tribe,  —  five  hundred  men 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


135 


Whom  I  alone  can  save,  alone  can  rule, 

And  plant  them  as  a  mighty  nation's  seed. 

Why,  vagabonds  who  clustered  round  one  man, 

Their  voice  of  God,  their  prophet,  and  their  king^ 

Twice  grew  to  empire  on  the  teeming  shores 

Of  Africa,  and  sent  new  royalties 

To  feed  afresh  the  Arab  sway  in  Spain. 

My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous. 

Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 

And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 

They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea : 

There  I  may  lead  them,  raise  my  standard,  call 

All  wandering  Zincali  to  that  home. 

And  make  a  nation,  —  bring  light,  order,  law, 

Instead  of  chaos.    You,  my  only  heir, 

Are  called  to  reign  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 

Now  choose  your  deed :  to  save  or  to  destroy. 

You,  woman  and  Zincala,  fortunate 

Above  your  fellows,  —  you  who  hold  a  curse 

Or  blessing  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand,  — 

Say  you  will  loose  that  hand  from  fellowship, 

Let  go  the  rescuing  rope,  hurl  all  the  tribes. 

Children  and  countless  beings  yet  to  come, 

Down  from  the  upward  path  of  light  and  joy, 

Back  to  the  dark  and  marshy  wilderness 

Where  life  is  naught  but  blind  tenacity 

Of  that  v/hich  is.    Say  you  will  curse  your  race  ! 

Fedalma  (rising  and  stretching  out  her  arms  ifi 
deprecation), 

No,  no,  —  I  will  not  say  it,  —  I  will  go  ! 
Father,  I  choose  !    I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery. 
This  deed  and  I  have  ripened  with  the  hours : 
It  is  a  part  of  me,  —  a  wakened  thought 


136  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That^  rising  like  a  giant,  masters  me, 
And  grows  into  a  doom.    0  mother  life, 
That  seemed  to  nourish  me  so  tenderly, 
Even  in  the  womb  you  vowed  me  to  the  fire, 
Hung  on  my  soul  the  burden  of  men's  hopes. 
And  pledged  me  to  redeem  !  —  I  '11  pay  the  debt. 
You  gave  me  strength  that  I  should  pour  it  all 
Into  this  anguish.    I  can  never  shrink 
Back  into  bliss,  —  my  heart  has  grown  too  big 
With  things  that  might  be.    Father,  I  will  go. 
I  will  strip  off  these  gems.    Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  Fedalma  would  be  dowered 
With  naught  but  curses,  dowered  with  misery 
Of  men,  —  of  women,  who  have  hearts  to  bleed 
As  hers  is  bleeding. 

(^She  sinks  on  a  seat,  and  begins  to  take  off  her 
jewels.) 

Kow,  good  gems,  we  part. 
Speak  of  me  always  tenderly  to  Silva. 

{She  pauses,  turning  to  Zarca.) 
0  father,  will  the  women  of  our  tribe 
Suffer  as  I  do,  in  the  years  to  come 
When  you  have  made  them  great  in  Africa  ? 
Redeemed  from  ignorant  ills  only  to  feel 
A  conscious  woe  ?    Then,  —  is  it  worth  the  pains  ? 
Were  it  not  better  when  we  reach  that  shore 
To  raise  a  funeral-pile  and  perish  all  ? 
So  closing  up  a  myriad  avenues 
To  misery  yet  unwrought  ?    My  soul  is  faint,  — 
Will  these  sharp  pangs  buy  any  certain  good  ? 

Zarca. 

Nay,  never  falter :  no  great  deed  is  done 
By  falterers  who  ask  for  certainty. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


137 


No  good  is  certain^  but  the  steadfast  mind, 
The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good  : 
^T  is  that  compels  the  elements^  and  wrings 
A  human  music  from  the  indifferent  air. 
The  greatest  gift  the  hero  leaves  his  race 
Is  to  have  been  a  hero.    Say  we  fail !  — 
We  feed  the  high  tradition  of  the  world, 
And  leave  our  spirit  in  Zincalo  breasts. 

Fed  ALMA  {unclasping  her  jewelled  helt^  and  throwing 
it  down). 

Yes,  say  that  we  shall  fail !    I  will  not  count 
On  aught  but  being  faithful.    I  will  take 
This  yearning  self  of  mine  and  strangle  it. 
I  will  not  be  half-hearted :  never  yet 
Fedalma  did  aught  with  a  wavering  soul. 
Die,  my  young  joy,  —  die,  all  my  hungry  hopes,  — 
The  milk  you  cry  for  from  the  breast  of  life 
Is  thick  with  curses.    Oh,  all  fatness  here 
Snatches  its  meat  from  leanness^  —  feeds  on  graves. 
I  will  seek  nothing  but  to  shun  what 's  base. 
The  saints  were  cowards  who  stood  by  to  see 
Christ  crucified :  they  should  have  flung  themselves 
Upon  the  Eoman  spears,  and  died  in  vain,  — 
The  grandest  death,  to  die  in  vain,  —  for  love 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world. 
That  death  shall  be  my  bridegroom.    I  will  wed 
The  curse  of  the  Zincali.    Father,  come ! 

Zarca. 

No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  we  cease 
To  help  each  other.    Y"ou,  if  you  are  false 
To  that  first  fellowship,  lay  on  the  curse. 
But  write  now  to  the  Spaniard  :  briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came ;  that  you  obeyed 


138  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  fate  which  made  you  a  Zincala,  as  his  fate 
Made  him  a  Spanish  duke  and  Christian  knight. 
He  must  not  think  .... 

Fed  ALMA. 

Yes,  I  will  write,  but  he,  — 
Oh,  he  would  know  it,  —  he  would  never  think 
The  chain  that  dragged  me  from  him  could  be  aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  in  my  soul. 

{She  writes.) 

Silvay  sole  love,  —  he  Carrie^  —  my  father  came, 

I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief 

Who  means  to  he  the  Savior  of  our  tribe. 

He  calls  on  me  to  live  for  his  great  end. 

To  live  ?  nay,  die  for  it,    Fedalma  dies 

In  leaving  Silva :  all  that  lives  henceforth 

Is  the  Zincala,  (She  rises.) 

Father,  now  I  go 
To  wed  my  people's  lot. 

Zarca. 

To  wed  a  crown. 
We  will  make  royal  the  Zincali's  lot,  — 
Give  it  a  country,  homes,  and  monuments 
Held  sacred  through  the  lofty  memories 
That  we  shall  leave  behind  us.    Come,  my  Queen ! 

Fedalma. 

Stay,  my  betrothal  ring  !  —  one  kiss,  —  farewell ! 
0  love,  you  were  my  crown.    No  other  crown 
Is  aught  but  thorns  on  my  poor  woman's  brow. 

(Exeunt) 


BOOK  11. 


SILVA  was  marching  homeward  while  the  moon 
Still  shed  mild  brightness  like  the  far-off  hope 
Of  those  pale  virgin  lives  that  wait  and  pray. 
The  stars  thin-scattered  made  the  heavens  large, 
Bending  in  slow  procession ;  in  the  east 
Emergent  from  the  dark  waves  of  the  hills. 
Seeming  a  little  sister  of  the  moon, 
Glowed  Venus  all  unquenched.    Silva,  in  haste, 
Exultant  and  yet  anxious,  urged  his  troop 
To  quick  and  quicker  march :  he  had  delight 
In  forward  stretching  shadows,  in  the  gleams 
That  travelled  on  the  armor  of  the  van, 
And  in  the  many-hoofed  sound  :  in  all  that  told 
Of  hurrying  movement  to  overtake  his  thought 
Already  in  Bedmar,  close  to  Fedalma, 
Leading  her  forth  a  wedded  bride,  fast  vowed, 
Defying  Eather  Isidor.    His  glance 
Took  in  with  much  content  the  priest  who  rode 
Eirm  in  his  saddle,  stalwart  and  broad-backed. 
Crisp-curled,  and  comfortably  secular. 
Right  in  the  front  of  him.    But  by  degrees 
Stealthily  faint,  disturbing  with  slow  loss 
That  showed  not  yet  full  promise  of  a  gain. 
The  light  was  changing  and  the  watch  intense 
Of  moon  and  stars  seemed  weary,  shivering  : 
The  sharp  white  brightness  passed  from  off  the  rocks 
Carrying  the  shadows  :  beauteous  Night  lay  dead 
Under  the  pall  of  twilight,  and  the  love-star 
Sickened  and  shrank.    The  troop  was  winding  now 
Upward  to  where  a  pass  between  the  peaks 


140  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Seemed  like  an  opened  gate^  —  to  Silva  seemed 

An  outer-gate  of  heaven,  for  through  that  pass 

They  entered  his  own  valley,  near  Bedmar. 

Sudden  within  the  pass  a  horseman  rose 

One  instant  dark  upon  the  banner  pale 

Of  rock-cut  sky,  the  next  in  motion  swift 

With  hat  and  plume  high  shaken,  —  ominous. 

Silva  had  dreamed  his  future,  and  the  dream 

Held  not  this  messenger.    A  minute  more,  — 

It  was  his  friend  Don  Alvar  whom  he  saw 

Eeining  his  horse  up,  face  to  face  with  him, 

Sad  as  the  twilight,  all  his  clothes  ill-girt,  — 

As  if  he  had  been  roused  to  see  one  die. 

And  brought  the  news  to  him  whom  death  had  robbed. 

Silva  believed  he  saw  the  worst,  —  the  town 

Stormed  by  the  infidel,  —  or,  could  it  be 

Fedalma  dragged  ?  —  no,  there  was  not  yet  time. 

But  with  a  marble  face,  he  only  said, 

^^What  evil,  Alvar?" 

"  What  this  paper  speaks.'* 
It  was  Fedalma^s  letter  folded  close 
And  mute  as  yet  for  Silva.    But  his  friend 
Keeping  it  still  sharp-pinched  against  his  breast, 

It  will  smite  hard,  my  lord  :  a  private  grief. 
I  would  not  have  you  pause  to  read  it  here. 
Let  us  ride  on,  —  we  use  the  moments  best, 
Eeaching  the  town  with  speed.    The  smaller  ill 
Is  that  our  Gypsy  prisoners  have  escaped." 
"  No  more.    Give  me  the  paper,  —  nay,  I  know,  — 
'Twill  make  no  difference.    Bid  them  march  on  faster." 
Silva  pushed  forward,  —  held  the  paper  crushed 
Close  in  his  right.    "  They  have  imprisoned  her," 
He  said  to  Alvar  in  low,  hard-cut  tones. 
Like  a  dream-speech  of  slumbering  revenge. 
«  ^S'o,  —  when  they  came  to  fetch  her  she  was  gone." 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


141 


Swift  as  the  right  touch  on  a  spring,  that  word 
Made  Silva  read  the  letter.    She  was  gone  ! 
But  not  into  locked  darkness,  —  only  gone 
Into  free  air,  —  where  he  might  find  her  yet. 
The  bitter  loss  had  triumph  in  it,  —  what ! 
They  would  have  seized  her  with  their  holy  claws  ? 
The  Prior's  sweet  morsel  of  despotic  hate 
Was  snatched  from  off  his  lips.    This  misery 
Had  yet  a  taste  of  joy. 

But  she  was  gone  ! 
The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  the  castle  walls 
The  light  grew  strong  and  stronger.    Silva  walked 
Through  the  long  corridor  where  dimness  yet 
Cherished  a  lingering,  flickering,  dying  hope  : 
Fedalma  still  was  there,  —  he  could  not  see 
The  vacant  place  that  once  her  presence  filled. 
Can  we  believe  that  the  dear  dead  are  gone  ? 
Love  in  sad  weeds  forgets  the  funeral  day. 
Opens  the  chamber  door  and  almost  smiles,  — 
Then  sees  the  sunbeams  pierce  athwart  the  bed 
Where  the  pale  face  is  not.    So  Silva's  joy^ 
Like  the  sweet  habit  of  caressing  hands 
That  seek  the  memory  of  another  hand, 
Still  lived  on  fitfully  in  spite  of  words, 
And,  numbing  thought  with  vague  illusion,  dulled 
The  slow  and  steadfast  beat  of  certainty. 
But  in  the  rooms  inexorable  light 
Streamed  through  the  open  window  where  she  fled, 
Streamed  on  the  belt  and  coronet  thrown  down,  — 
Mute  witnesses,  —  sought  out  the  typic  ring 
That  sparkled  on  the  crimson,  solitary. 
Wounding  him  like  a  word.    0  hateful  light ! 
It  filled  the  chambers  with  her  absence,  glared 
On  all  the  motionless  things  her  hand  had  touched, 
Motionless  all,  —  save  where  old  Inez  lay 


142  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Sunk  on  the  floor  holding  her  rosary, 
Making  its  shadow  tremble  with  her  fear. 
And  Silva  passed  her  by  because  she  grieved : 
It  was  the  lute,  the  gems,  the  pictured  heads, 
He  longed  to  crush,  because  they  made  no  sign 
But  of  insistence  that  she  was  not  there. 
She  who  had  filled  his  sight  and  hidden  them. 
He  went  forth  on  the  terrace  tow'rd  the  stairs, 
Saw  the  rained  petals  of  the  cistus  flowers 
/    Crushed  by  large  feet ;  but  on  one  shady  spot 
Far  down  the  steps,  where  dampness  made  a  home, 
He  saw  a  footprint  delicate-slippered,  small. 
So  dear  to  him,  he  searched  for  sister-prints. 
Searched  in  the  rock-hewn  passage  with  a  lamp 
For  other  trace  of  her,  and  found  a  glove ; 
But  not  Fedalma's.    It  was  Juan's  glove, 
Tasselled,  perfumed,  embroidered  with  his  name, 
A  gift  of  dames.    Then  Juan,  too,  was  gone  ? 
Full-mouthed  conjecture,  hurrying  through  the  town, 
Had  spread  the  tale  already,  —  it  was  he 
That  helped  the  Gypsies'  flight.    He  talked  and  sang 
Of  nothing  but  the  Gypsies  and  Fedalma. 
He  drew  the  threads  together,  wove  the  plan. 
Had  lingered  out  by  moonlight  and  been  seen 
Strolling,  as  was  his  wont,  within  the  Avails, 
Humming  his  ditties.    So  Don  Alvar  told, 
Conveying  outside  rumor.    But  the  Duke 
Keeping  his  haughtiness  as  a  visor  closed 
Would  show  no  agitated  front  in  quest 
Of  small  disclosures.    What  her  writing  bore 
Had  been  enough.    He  knew  that  she  was  gone, 
Knew  why. 

"  The  Duke,"  some  said,  "  will  send  a  force. 
Retake  the  prisoners,  and  bring  back  his  bride." 
But  others,  winking,  "  Nay,  her  wedding  dress 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


143 


Would  be  the  soM-henito,       is  a  fight 
Between  the  Duke  and  Prior.    Wise  bets  will  choose 
The  churchman :  he 's  the  iron,  and  the  Duke  — 
^'  Is  a  fine  piece  of  pottery/^  said  mine  host, 
Softening  the  epigram  with  a  bland  regret. 

There  was  the  thread  that  in  the  new-made  knot 

Of  obstinate  circumstance  seemed  hardest  drawn, 

Vexed  most  the  sense  of  Silva,  in  these  hours 

Of  fresh  and  angry  pain,  —  there,  in  that  fight 

Against  a  foe  whose  sword  was  magical. 

His  shield  invisible  terrors,  —  against  a  foe 

Who  stood  as  if  upon  the  smoking  mount 

Ordaining  plagues.    All  else,  Fedalma's  flight, 

The  father^s  claim,  her  Gypsy  birth  disclosed, 

Were  momentary  crosses,  hindrances 

A  Spanish  noble  might  despise.    This  Chief 

Might  still  be  treated  with,  would  not  refuse 

A  proffered  ransom,  which  would  better  serve 

Gypsy  prospeiuty,  give  him  more  power 

Over  his  tribe,  than  any  fatherhood  : 

Nay,  all  the  father  in  him  must  plead  loud 

For  marriage  of  his  daughter  where  she  loved,  — 

Her  love  being  placed  so  high  and  lustrously. 

The  keen  Zincalo  had  foreseen  a  price 

That  would  be  paid  him  for  his  daughter's  dower,  — 

Might  soon  give  signs.    Oh,  all  his  purpose  lay 

Face  upward.    Silva  here  felt  strong,  and  smiled. 

What  could  a  Spanish  noble  not  command  ? 

He  only  helped  the  Queen,  because  he  chose,  — 

Could  war  on  Spaniards,  and  could  spare  the  Moor,  — 

Buy  justice,  or  defeat  it,  —  if  he  would : 

Was  loyal,  not  from  weakness  but  from  strength 

Of  high  resolve  to  use  his  birthright  well. 

For  nobles  too  are  gods,  like  Emperors, 


144  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Accept  perforce  their  own  divinity 

And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  their  touch, 

Till  obstinate  resistance  shakes  their  creed, 

Shattering  that  self  whose  wholeness  is  not  rounded 

Save  in  the  plastic  souls  of  other  men. 

Don  Silva  had  been  suckled  in  that  creed 

(A  speculative  noble  else,  knowing  Italian), 

Held  it  absurd  as  foolish  argument 

If  any  failed  in  deference,  was  too  proud 

Not  to  be  courteous  to  so  poor  a  knave 

As  one  who  knew  not  necessary  truths 

Of  birth  and  precedence  ;  but  cross  his  will. 

The  miracle-working  will,  his  rage  leaped  out 

As  by  a  right  divine  to  rage  more  fatal 

Than  a  mere  mortal  man's.    And  now  that  will 

Had  met  a  stronger  adversary,  —  strong 

As  awful  ghosts  are  whom  we  cannot  touch, 

While  they  grasp  us,  subtly  as  poisoned  air, 

In  deep-laid  fibres  of  inherited  fear 

That  lie  below  all  courage. 

Silva  said. 

She  is  not  lost  to  me,  might  still  be  mine 
But  for  the  Inquisition,  —  the  dire  hand 
That  waits  to  clutch  her  with  a  hideous  grasp, 
Not  passionate,  human,  living,  but  a  grasp 
As  in  the  death-throe  when  the  human  soul 
Departs  and  leaves  force  unrelenting,  locked, 
Not  to  be  loosened  save  by  slow  decay 
That  frets  the  universe.    Father  Isidor 
Has  willed  it  so :  his  phial  dropped  the  oil 
To  catch  the  air-borne  motes  of  idle  slander ; 
He  fed  the  fascinated  gaze  that  clung 
Eound  all  her  movements,  frank  as  growths  of  spring, 
With  the  new  hateful  interest  of  suspicion. 
What  barrier  is  this  Gypsy  ?  a  mere  gate 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


145 


I  '11  find  the  key  for.    The  one  barrier^ 

The  tightening  cord  that  winds  about  my  limbs, 

Is  this  kind  uncle,  this  imperious  saint, 

He  who  will  save  me,  guard  me  from  myself. 

And  he  can  work  his  will :  I  have  no  help 

Save  reptile  secrecy,  and  no  revenge 

Save  that  I  will  do  what  he  schemes  to  hinder. 

Ay,  secrecy,  and  disobedience,  —  these 

No  tyranny  can  master.    Disobey  ! 

You  may  divide  the  universe  with  God, 

Keeping  your  will  unbent,  and  hold  a  world 

Where  he  is  not  supreme.    The  Prior  shall  know  it ! 

His  will  shall  breed  resistance  :  he  shall  do 

The  thing  he  would  not,  further  what  he  hates 

By  hardening  my  resolve.'^ 

But  'neath  this  inward  speech,  — 
Predominant,  hectoring,  the  more  passionate  voice 
Of  many-blended  consciousness,  —  there  breathed 
Murmurs  of  doubt,  the  weakness  of  a  self 
That  is  not  one ;  denies  and  yet  believes  ; 
Protests  with  passion,  "  This  is  natural,"  — 
Yet  owns  the  other  still  were  truer,  better. 
Could  nature  follow  it.    A  self  disturbed 
By  budding  growths  of  reason  premature 
That  breed  disease.    Spite  of  defiant  rage 
Silva  half  shrank  before  the  steadfast  man 
Whose  life  was  one  compacted  whole,  a  state 
Where  the  rule  changed  not,  and  the  law  was  strong. 
Then  straightway  he  resented  that  forced  tribute, 
Rousing  rebellion  with  intenser  will. 

But  soon  this  inward  strife  the  slow-paced  hours 
Slackened ;  and  the  soul  sank  with  hunger-pangs, 
Hunger  of  love.    Debate  was  swept  right  down 
By  certainty  of  loss  intolerable. 

10 


146  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  little  loss  !  only  a  dark-tressed  maid 

Who  had  no  heritage  save  her  beauteous  being ! 

But  in  the  candor  of  her  virgin  eyes 

Saying,  I  love ;  and  in  the  mystic  charm 

Of  her  dear  presence,  Silva  found  a  heaven 

Where  faith  and  hope  were  drowned  as  stars  in  day. 

Fedalma  there,  each  momentary  Now 

Seemed  a  whole  blest  existence,  a  full  cup 

That,  flowing  over,  asked  no  pouring  hand 

From  past  to  future.    All  the  world  was  hers. 

Splendor  was  but  the  herald  trumpet  note 

Of  her  imperial  coming  :  penury 

Vanished  before  her  as  before  a  gem 

The  pledge  of  treasuries.    Fedalma  there, 

He  thought  all  loveliness  was  lovelier, 

She  crowning  it :  all  goodness  credible, 

Because  of  the  great  trust  her  goodness  bred. 

For  the  strong  current  of  that  passionate  love 

Which  urged  his  life  towards  hers,  like  urgent  floods 

That  hurry  through  the  various-mingled  earth, 

Carried  within  its  stream  all  qualities 

Of  what  it  penetrated,  and  made  love 

Only  another  name,  as  Silva  was, 

For  the  whole  man  that  breathed  within  his  frame. 

And  she  was  gone.    Well,  goddesses  will  go  ; 

But  for  a  noble  there  were  mortals  left 

Shaped  just  like  goddesses,  —  0  hateful  sweet ! 

0  impudent  pleasure  that  should  dare  to  front 

With  vulgar  visage  memories  divine  ! 

The  noble's  birthright  of  miraculous  will 

Turning  I  would  to  must  he^  spurning  all 

Offered  as  substitute  for  what  it  chose. 

Tightened  and  fixed  in  strain  irrevocable 

The  passionate  selection  of  that  love 

Which  came  not  first  but  as  all-conquering  last. 

Great  Love  has  many  attributes,  and  shrines 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


147 


For  varied  worshippers,  but  his  force  divine 

Shows  most  its  many-named  fulness  in  the  man 

Whose  nature  multitudinously  mixed, 

Each  ardent  impulse  grappling  with  a  thought 

Resists  all  easy  gladness,  all  content 

Save  mystic  rapture,  where  the  questioning  soul 

Flooded  with  consciousness  of  good  that  is 

Finds  life  one  bounteous  answer.    So  it  was 

In  Silva's  nature,  Love  had  mastery  there, 

Not  as  a  holiday  ruler,  but  as  one 

Who  quells  a  tumult  in  a  day  of  dread, 

A  welcomed  despot. 

Oh,  all  comforters, 
All  soothing  things  that  bring  mild  ecstasy. 
Came  with  her  coming,  in  her  presence  lived. 
Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass  ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness  ;  odors  soft,  — 
Dumb  vagrant  bliss  that  seems  to  seek  a  home 
And  find  it  deep  within  'mid  stirrings  vague 
Of  far-off  moments  when  our  life  was  fresh ; 
All  sweetly-tempered  music,  gentle  change 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  as  on  wide  lagoons 
At  sunset  when  from  black  far-floating  prows 
Comes  a  clear  wafted  song ;  all  exquisite  joy 
Of  a  subdued  desire,  like  some  strong  stream 
Made  placid  in  the  fulness  of  a  lake,  — 
All  came  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  she  brought 
The  love  supreme  which  gathers  to  its  realm 
All  powers  of  loving.    Subtle  nature's  hand 
Waked  with  a  touch  the  intricate  harmonies 
In  her  own  manifold  work.    Fedalma  there, 
Fastidiousness  became  the  prelude  fine 
For  full  contentment,  and  young  melancholy, 
Lost  for  its  origin,  seemed  but  the  pain 


148  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  waiting  for  that  perfect  happiness  — 
The  happiness  was  gone  ! 

He  sat  alone, 
Hating  companionship  that  was  not  hers ; 
Felt  bruised  with  hopeless  longing ;  drank,  as  wine, 
Illusions  of  what  had  been,  would  have  been ; 
Weary  with  anger  and  a  strained  resolve, 
Sought  passive  happiness  in  a  waking  dream- 
It  has  been  so  with  rulers,  emperors, 
Nay,  sages  who  held  secrets  of  great  Time, 
Sharing  his  hoary  and  beneficent  life,  — 
Men  who  sat  throned  among  the  multitudes,  — 
They  have  sore  sickened  at  the  loss  of  one. 
Silva  sat  lonely  in  her  chamber,  leaned 
Where  she  had  leaned,  to  feel  the  evening  breath 
Shed  from  the  orange-trees  ;  when  suddenly 
His  grief  was  echoed  in  a  sad  young  voice 
Far  and  yet  near,  brought  by  aerial  wings. 

The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me, 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach :  my  little  sister  went. 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still, 
But  it  rose  higher :  little  Lisa  went, 

And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from  ;  sea  birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart :  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday :  how  fast  they  walk  ! 
J'm  lame,  they  push  me :  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


149 


'T  was  Pablo,  like  the  wounded  spirit  of  song 

Pouring  melodious  pain  to  cheat  the  hour 

For  idle  soldiers  in  the  castle  court. 

Dreamily  Silva  heard  and  hardly  felt 

The  song  was  outward,  rather  felt  it  part 

Of  his  own  aching,  like  the  lingering  day, 

Or  slow  and  mournful  cadence  of  the  bell. 

But  when  the  voice  had  ceased,  he  longed  for  it, 

And  fretted  at  the  pause,  as  memory  frets 

When  words  that  made  its  body  fall  away 

And  leave  it  yearning  dumbly.    Silva  then 

Bethought  him  whence  the  voice  came,  framed  perforce 

Some  outward  image  of  a  life  not  his 

That  made  a  sorrowful  centre  to  the  world,  — 

A  boy  lame,  melancholy-eyed,  who  bore 

A  viol,  —  yes,  that  very  child  he  saw 

This  morning  eating  roots  by  the  gateway,  —  saw 

As  one  fresh-ruined  sees  and  spells  a  name 

And  knows  not  what  he  does,  yet  finds  it  writ 

Full  in  the  inner  record.    Hark,  again  ! 

The  voice  and  viol.    Silva  called  his  thought 

To  guide  his  ear  and  track  the  travelling  sound. 

0  bird  that  used  to  press 
Thy  head  against  my  cheek 
With  touch  that  seemed  to  speak 

And  ask  a  tender  "  yes,''^  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  ! 

0  tender  downy  breast 

And  warmly  beating  heart, 

That  beating  seemed  a  part 
Of  me  who  gave  it  rest,  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  ! 

The  western  court !    The  singer  might  be  seen 
From  the  upper  gallery :  quick  the  Duke  was  there 


150  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Looking  npon  the  court  as  on  a  stage. 

Men  eased  of  armor,  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

Gambling  by  snatches  ;  shepherds  from  the  hills 

Who  brought  their  bleating  friends  for  slaughter ;  grooms 

Shouldering  loose  harness  ;  leather-aproned  smiths, 

Traders  with  wares,  green-suited  serving-men, 

Made  a  round  audience  ;  and  in  their  midst 

Stood  little  Pablo,  pouring  forth  his  song. 

Just  as  the  Duke  had  pictured.    But  the  song 

Was  strangely  companied  by  Eoldan's  play 

With  the  swift-gleaming  balls,  and  now  was  crushed 

By  peals  of  laughter  at  grave  Annibal, 

Who  carrying  stick  and  purse  overturned  the  pence, 

Making  mistake  by  rule.    Silva  had  thought 

To  melt  hard  bitter  grief  by  fellowship 

With  the  world-sorrow  trembling  in  his  ear 

In  Pablo^s  voice  ;  had  meant  to  give  command 

Por  the  boy's  presence  ;  but  this  company. 

This  mountebank  and  monkey,  must  be  —  stay  ! 

Not  be  excepted  —  must  be  ordered  too 

Into  his  private  presence  ;  they  had  brought 

Suggestion  of  a  ready  shapen  tool 

To  cut  a  path  between  his  helpless  wish 

And  what  it  imaged.    A  ready  shapen  tool ! 

A  spy,  an  envoy  whom  he  might  despatch 

In  unsuspected  secrecy,  to  find 

The  Gypsies'  refuge  so  that  none  beside 

Might  learn  it.    And  this  juggler  could  be  bribed, 

Would  have  no  fear  of  Moors,  —  for  who  would  kill 

Dancers  and  monkeys  ?  —  could  pretend  a  journey 

Back  to  his  home,  leaving  his  boy  the  while 

To  please  the  Duke  with  song.    Without  such  chance,  — 

An  envoy  cheap  and  secret  as  a  mole 

Who  could  go  scathless,  come  back  for  his  pay 

And  vanish  straight,  tied  by  no  neighborhood,  — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


161 


Without  such  chance  as  this  poor  juggler  brought, 
Finding  Fedalma  was  betraying  her. 

Short  interval  betwixt  the  thought  and  deed. 

Roldan  was  called  to  private  audience 

With  Annibal  and  Pablo.    All  the  world 

(By  which  I  mean  the  score  or  two  who  heard) 

Shrugged  high  their  shoulders,  and  supposed  the  Duke 

Would  fain  beguile  the  evening  and  replace 

His  lacking  happiness,  as  was  the  right 

Of  nobles,  who  could  pay  for  any  cure, 

And  wore  naught  broken,  save  a  broken  limb. 

In  truth,  at  first,  the  Duke  bade  Pablo  sing. 

But,  while  he  sang,  called  Eoldan  wide  apart, 

And  told  him  of  a  mission  secret,  brief,  — 

A  quest  which  well  performed  might  earn  much  gold, 

But,  if  betrayed,  another  sort  of  wages. 

Roldan  was  ready ;     wished  above  all  for  gold 

And  never  wished  to  speak ;  had  worked  enough 

At  wagging  his  old  tongue  and  chiming  jokes ; 

Thought  it  was  others'  turn  to  play  the  fool. 

Give  him  but  pence  enough,  no  rabbit,  sirs. 

Would  eat  and  stare  and  be  more  dumb  than  he. 

Give  him  his  orders." 

They  were  given  straight ; 
Gold  for  the  journey,  and  to  buy  a  mule 
Outside  the  gates  through  which  he  was  to  pass 
Afoot  and  carelessly.    The  boy  would  stay 
Within  the  castle,  at  the  Duke's  command. 
And  must  have  naught  but  ignorance  to  betray 
For  threats  or  coaxing.    Once  the  quest  performed. 
The  news  delivered  with  some  pledge  of  truth 
Safe  to  the  Duke,  the  juggler  should  go  forth, 
A  fortune  in  his  girdle,  take  his  boy 
And  settle  firm  as  any  planted  tree 


152 


POEMS  OF  GEOUGE  ELIOT. 


In  fair  Valencia,  never  more  to  roam. 
"  Good  !  good !  most  worthy  of  a  great  hidalgo  ! 
And  Eoldan  was  the  man  !    But  Annibal,  — 
A  monkey  like  no  other,  though  morose 
In  private  character,  yet  full  of  tricks,  — 
were  hard  to  carry  him,  yet  harder  still 
To  leave  the  boy  and  him  in  company 
And  free  to  slip  away.    The  boy  was  wild 
And  shy  as  mountain  kid ;  once  hid  himself 
And  tried  to  run  away  ;  and  Annibal, 
Who  always  took  the  lad's  side  (he  was  small, 
And  they  were  nearer  of  a  size,  and,  sirs, 
Your  monkey  has  a  spite  against  us  men 
For  being  bigger),  —  Annibal  went  too. 
Would  hardly  know  himself,  were  he  to  lose 
Both  boy  and  monkey,  —  and 't  was  property, 
The  trouble  he  had  put  in  Annibal, 
He  didn't  choose  another  man  should  beat 
His  boy  and  monkey.    If  they  ran  away 
Some  man  would  snap  them  up,  and  square  himself 
And  say  they  were  his  goods,  —  he 'd  taught  them.  —  no  ! 
He  Roldan  had  no  mind  another  man 
Should  fatten  by  his  monkey,  and  the  boy 
Should  not  be  kicked  by  any  pair  of  sticks 
Calling  himself  a  juggler."  .... 

But  the  Duke, 
Tired  of  that  hammering,  signed  that  it  should  cease ; 
Bade  Boldan  quit  all  fears,  —  the  boy  and  ape 
Should  be  safe  lodged  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
In  keeping  of  the  great  physician  there, 
The  Duke's  most  special  confidant  and  friend, 
One  skilled  in  taming  brutes,  and  always  kind. 
The  Duke  himself  this  eve  would  see  them  lodged. 
Eoldan  must  go,  —  spend  no  more  words,  —  but  go. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


153 


A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman's  tower, 

A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 

And  the  bright  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 

Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 

Of  light  amid  the  dimness  ;  here  and  there 

Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 

In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 

Eight  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 

And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 

Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet ; 

Pale  faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 

Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  o±  thought ; 

Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate  ; 

Beard  scant  and  grizzled ;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 

So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite. 

You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 

Full-vowelled,  long-descended,  pregnant,  —  rich 

With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives. 

Close  by  him,  like  a  genius  of  sleep, 

Purrs  the  gray  cat,  bridling,  with  snowy  breast. 

A  loud  knock.    "  Forward  !    in  clear  vocal  ring. 

Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal. 

Exit  the  cat,  retreating  toward  the  dark. 

Don  Silva. 
Y^ou  slept,  Sephardo.    I  am  come  too  soon. 

Sephardo. 
Nay,  my  lord,  it  was  I  who  slept  too  long. 
I  go  to  court  among  the  stars  to-night. 
So  bathed  my  soul  beforehand  in  deep  sleep. 
But  who  are  these  ? 

DoN^  Silva. 

Small  guests,  for  whom  I  ask 
Your  hospitality.    Their  owner  comes 


154  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Some  short  time  hence  to  claim  them.    I  am  pledged 
To  keep  them  safely  ;  so  I  bring  them  you, 
Trusting  your  friendship  for  small  animals. 

Sephardo. 
Yea,  am  not  I  too  a  small  animal  ? 

Don  Silva. 

I  shall  be  much  beholden  to  your  love 
If  you  will  be  their  guardian.    I  can  trust 
No  other  man  so  well  as  you.    The  boy 
Will  please  you  with  his  singing,  touches  too 
The  viol  wondrously. 

Sephardo. 

They  are  welcome  both. 

Their  names  are  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Pablo,  this  —  this  Annibal, 
And  yet,  I  hope,  no  warrior. 

Sephardo. 

We  '11  make  peace. 
Come,  Pablo,  let  us  loosen  our  friend's  chain. 
Deign  you,  my  lord,  to  sit.    Here,  Pablo,  thou  — 
Close  to  my  chair.    Now  Annibal  shall  choose. 

[The  cautious  monkey,  in  a  Moorish  dress, 

A  tunic  white,  turban  and  scymitar, 

Wears  these  stage  garments,  nay,  his  very  flesh 

With  silent  protest ;  keeps  a  neutral  air 

As  aiming  at  a  metaphysic  state 

Twixt    is  "  and    is  not "  ;  lets  his  chain  be  loosed 

By  sage  Sephardo's  hands,  sits  still  at  first, 

Then  trembles  out  of  his  neutrality. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


155 


Looks  up  and  leaps  into  Sephardo's  lap, 
And  chatters  forth  his  agitated  soul, 
Turning  to  peep  at  Pablo  on  the  floor.] 

Sephardo. 
See,  he  declares  we  are  at  amity ! 

Don  Silva. 
No  brother  sage  had  read  your  nature  faster. 

Sephardo. 

Why,  so  he  is  a  brother  sage.    Man  thinks 
Brutes  have  no  wisdom,  since  they  know  not  his : 
Can  we  divine  their  world  ?  —  the  hidden  life 
That  mirrors  us  as  hideous  shapeless  power, 
Cruel  supremacy  of  sharp-edged  death. 
Or  fate  that  leaves  a  bleeding  mother  robbed  ? 
Oh,  they  have  long  tradition  and  swift  speech. 
Can  tell  with  touches  and  sharp  darting  cries 
Whole  histories  of  timid  races  taught 
To  breathe  in  terror  by  red-handed  man. 

Don  Silva. 

Ah,  you  denounce  my  sport  with  hawk  and  hound. 
I  would  not  have  the  angel  Gabriel 
As  hard  as  you  in  noting  down  my  sins. 

Sephardo. 

Nay,  they  are  virtues  for  you  warriors,  — 
Hawking  and  hunting  !    You  are  merciful 
When  you  leave  killing  men  to  kill  the  brutes. 
But,  for  the  point  of  wisdom,  I  would  choose 
To  know  the  mind  that  stirs  between  the  wings 
Of  bees  and  building  wasps,  or  fills  the  woods 
With  myriad  murmurs  of  responsive  sense 


156  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  true-aimed  impulse,  rather  than  to  know 
The  thoughts  of  warriors. 

Don  Silya. 

Yet  they  are  warriors  too,  — 
Your  animals.    Your  judgment  limps,  Sephardo  : 
Death  is  the  king  of  this  world ;  't  is  his  park 
Where  he  breeds  life  to  feed  him.    Cries  of  pain 
Are  music  for  his  banquet ;  and  the  masque,  — 
The  last  grand  masque  for  his  diversion,  is 
^  The  Holy  Inquisition. 

Sephardo. 
Ay,  anon 

I  may  chime  in  with  you.    But  not  the  less 

My  judgment  has  firm  feet.    Though  death  were  king, 

And  cruelty  his  right-hand  minister, 

Pity  insurgent  in  some  human  breasts 

Makes  spiritual  empire,  reigns  supreme 

As  persecuted  faith  in  faithful  hearts. 

Your  small  physician,  weighing  ninety  pounds, 

A  petty  morsel  for  a  healthy  shark, 

Will  worship  mercy  throned  within  his  soul 

Though  all  the  luminous  angels  of  the  stars 

Burst  into  cruel  chorus  on  his  ear. 

Singing,  "  We  know  no  mercy.'^    He  would  cry 

"  I  know  it still,  and  soothe  the  frightened  bird 

And  feed  the  child  a-hungered,  walk  abreast 

Of  persecuted  men,  and  keep  most  hate 

For  rational  torturers.    There  I  stand  firm. 

But  you  are  bitter,  and  my  speech  rolls  on 

Out  of  your  note. 

Don  Silva. 

Ko,  no,  I  follow  you. 
I  too  have  that  within  which  I  will  worship 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


15T 


In  spite  of  —  yes,  Sephardo,  I  am  bitter. 
I  need  your  counsel,  foresight,  all  your  aid. 
Lay  these  small  guests  to  bed,  then  we  will  talk. 

Sephardo. 

See,  they  are  sleeping  now.    The  boy  has  made 
My  leg  his  pillow.    For  my  brother  sage, 
He  '11  never  heed  us  ;  he  knit  long  ago 
A  sound  ape-system,  wherein  men  are  brutes 
Emitting  doubtful  noises.    Pray,  my  lord. 
Unlade  what  burdens  you :  my  ear  and  hand 
Are  servants  of  a  heart  much  bound  to  you. 

Don  Silva. 
Yes,  yours  is  love  that  roots  in  gifts  bestowed 
By  you  on  others,  and  will  thrive  the  more 
The  more  it  gives.    I  have  a  double  want  : 
First  a  confessor,  —  not  a  Catholic  ; 
A  heart  without  a  livery,  —  naked  manhood. 

Sephardo. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  frank,  there 's  no  such  thing 

As  naked  manhood.    If  the  stars  look  down 

On  any  mortal  of  our  shape,  whose  strength 

Is  to  judge  all  things  without  preference, 

He  is  a  monster,  not  a  faithful  man. 

While  my  heart  beats,  it  shall  wear  livery,  — 

My  people's  livery,  whose  yellow  badge 

Marks  them  for  Christian  scorn.    I  will  not  say 

Man  is  first  man  to  me,  then  J ew  or  Gentile  : 

That  suits  the  rich  marranos  ;  but  to  me 

My  father  is  first  father  and  then  man. 

So  much  for  frankness'  sake.    But  let  that  pass. 

'T  is  true  at  least,  I  am  no  Catholic, 

But  Salomo  Sephardo,  a  born  Jew, 

Willing  to  serve  Don  Silva. 


158 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

Oft  you  sing 

Another  strain,  and  melt  distinctions  down 
As  no  more  real  than  the  wall  of  dark 
Seen  by  small  fishes'  eyes,  that  pierce  a  span 
In  the  wide  ocean.    Kow  you  league  yourself 
To  hem  me,  hold  me  prisoner  in  bonds 
Made,  say  you,  —  how  ?  —  by  God  or  Demiurge, 
By  spirit  or  flesh,  —  I  care  not !    Love  was  made 
Stronger  than  bonds,  and  where  they  press  must  break 
them. 

I  came  to  you  that  I  might  breathe  at  large, 
And  now  you  stifle  me  with  talk  of  birth. 
Of  race  and  livery.    Yet  you  knew  Fedalma. 
She  was  your  friend,  Sephardo.    And  you  know 
She  is  gone  from  me,  —  know  the  hounds  are  loosed 
To  dog  me  if  I  seek  her. 

Sephardo. 
Yes,  I  know. 
Forgive  me  that  I  used  untimely  speech. 
Pressing  a  bruise.    I  loved  her  well,  my  lord : 
A  woman  mixed  of  such  fine  elements 
That  were  all  virtue  and  religion  dead 
She 'd  make  them  newly,  being  what  she  was. 

Don  Silva. 

Was  ?  say  not  was,  Sephardo  !    She  still  lives,  — 

Is,  and  is  mine ;  and  I  will  not  renounce 

What  heaven,  nay,  what  she  gave  me.    I  will  sin, 

If  sin  I  must,  to  win  my  life  again. 

The  fault  lie  with  those  powers  who  have  embroiled 

The  world  in  hopeless  conflict,  where  all  truth 

Fights  manacled  with  falsehood,  and  all  good 

Makes  but  one  palpitating  life  with  evil. 

(Don  SiLYA  2^auses»    Bbfhab^bo  is  silent) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


159 


Sephardo,  speak  !  am  I  not  justified  ? 

You  taught  my  mind  to  use  tlie  wing  that  soars 

Above  the  petty  fences  of  the  herd  : 

Now,  when  I  need  your  doctrine,  you  are  dumb. 

Sephakdo. 
Patience  !    Hidalgos  want  interpreters 
Of  untold  dreams  and  riddles  ;  they  insist 
On  dateless  horoscopes,  on  formulas 
To  raise  a  possible  spirit,  nowhere  named. 
Science  must  be  their  wishing  cap ;  the  stars 
Speak  plainer  for  high  largesse.    No,  my  lord ! 
I  cannot  counsel  you  to  unknown  deeds. 
Thus  much  I  can  divine :  you  wish  to  find 
Her  whom  you  love,  —  to  make  a  secret  search. 

DOIS^  SiLVA. 

That  is  begun  already :  a  messenger 
Unknown  to  all  has  been  despatched  this  night. 
But  forecast  must  be  used,  a  plan  devised, 
Eeady  for  service  when  my  scout  returns. 
Bringing  the  invisible  thread  to  guide  my  steps 
Toward  that  lost  self  my  life  is  aching  with. 
Sephardo,  I  will  go  :  and  I  must  go 
Unseen  by  all  save  you  ;  though,  at  our  need, 
We  may  trust  Alvar. 

Sephardo. 

A  grave  task,  my  lord. 
Have  you  a  shapen  purpose,  or  mere  will 
That  sees  the  end  alone  and  not  the  means  ? 
Eesolve  will  melt  no  rocks. 

Don  Silva. 

But  it  can  scale  them. 
This  fortress  has  two  private  issues :  one, 


160 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Whicli  served  the  Gypsies'  fliglit,  to  me  is  closed  : 

Our  bands  must  watcli  the  outlet,  now  betrayed 

To  cunning  enemies.    Eemains  one  other, 

Known  to  no  man  save  me  :  a  secret  left 

As  heirloom  in  our  house  :  a  secret  safe 

Even  from  him,  — from  Father  Isidor. 

'T  is  he  who  forces  me  to  use  it,  —  he  : 

All 's  virtue  that  cheats  bloodhounds.    Hear,  Sephardo. 

Given,  my  scout  returns  and  brings  me  news 

I  can  straight  act  on,  I  shall  want  your  aid. 

The  issue  lies  below  this  tower,  your  fastness, 

Where,  by  my  charter,  you  rule  absolute. 

I  shall  feign  illness  ;  you  with  mystic  air 

Must  speak  of  treatment  asking  vigilance 

(Nay  I  am  ill,  —  my  life  has  half  ebbed  out). 

I  shall  be  whimsical,  devolve  command 

On  Don  Diego,  speak  of  poisoning, 

Insist  on  being  lodged  within  this  tower, 

And  rid  myself  of  tendance  save  from  you 

And  perhaps  from  Alvar.    So  I  shall  escape 

Unseen  by  spies,  shall  win  the  days  I  need 

To  ransom  her  and  have  her  safe  enshrined. 

No  matter,  were  my  flight  disclosed  at  last : 

I  shall  come  back  as  from  a  duel  fought 

Which  no  man  can  undo.    Now  you  know  all. 

Say,  can  I  count  on  you  ? 

Sephardo. 

For  faithfulness 
In  aught  that  I  may  promise  —  yes,  my  lord. 
But,  —  for  a  pledge  of  faithfulness,  —  this  warning. 
I  will  betray  naught  for  your  personal  harm : 
I  love  you.    But  note  this,  —  I  am  a  Jew ; 
And  while  the  Christian  persecutes  my  race, 
I  '11  turn  at  need  even  the  Christian's  trust 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


161 


Into  a  weapon  and  a  shield  for  J ews. 
Shall  Cruelty  crowned  —  wielding  the  savage  force 
Of  multitudes,  and  calling  savageness  God 
Who  gives  it  victory  —  upbraid  deceit 
And  ask  for  faithfulness  ?    I  love  you  well. 
You  are  my  friend.    But  yet  you  are  a  Christian, 
Whose  birth  has  bound  you  to  the  Catholic  kings. 
There  may  come  moments  when  to  share  my  joy 
Would  make  you  traitor,  when  to  share  your  grief 
Would  make  me  other  than  a  Jew  .... 

Don  Silva. 

What  need 

To  urge  that  now,  Sephardo  ?    I  am  one 
Of  many  Spanish  nobles  who  detest 
The  roaring  bigotry  of  the  herd,  would  fain 
Dash  from  the  lips  of  king  and  queen  the  cup 
Filled  with  besotting  venom,  half  infused 
By  avarice  and  half  by  priests.    And  now,  — 
Now  when  the  cruelty  you  flout  me  with 
Pierces  me  too  in  the  apple  of  my  eye, 
Now  when  my  kinship  scorches  me  like  hate 
Flashed  from  a  mother's  eye,  you  choose  this  time 
To  talk  of  birth  as  of  inherited  rage 
Deep-down,  volcanic,  fatal,  bursting  forth 
From  under  hard-taught  reason  ?  Wondrous  friendship  ! 
My  uncle  Isidores  echo,  mocking  me, 
From  the  opposing  quarter  of  the  heavens. 
With  iteration  of  the  thing  I  know. 
That  I 'm  a  Christian  knight  and  Spanish  noble  ! 
The  consequence  ?    Why,  that  I  know.    It  lies 
In  my  own  hands  and  not  on  raven  tongues. 
The  knight  and  noble  shall  not  wear  the  chain 
Of  false-linked  thoughts  in  brains  of  other  men. 
What  question  was  there  'twixt  us  two,  of  aught 

11 


162 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  makes  division  ?    When  T  come  to  you 
I  come  for  other  doctrine  than  the  Prior's. 

Sephardo. 

My  lord^  yon  are  overwrought  by  pain.    My  words, 

That  carried  innocent  meaning,  do  but  float 

Like  little  emptied  cups  upon  the  flood 

Your  mind  brings  with  it.    I  but  answered  you 

With  regular  proviso,  such  as  stands 

In  testaments  and  charters,  to  forefend 

A  possible  case  which  none  deem  likelihood ; 

Just  turned  my  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  brand 

Of  brotherhood  that  limits  every  pledge. 

Superfluous  nicety,  —  the  student's  trick, 

Who  will  not  drink  until  he  can  define 

What  water  is  and  is  not.    But  enough. 

My  will  to  serve  you  now  knows  no  division 

Save  the  alternate  beat  of  love  and  fear. 

There 's  danger  in  this  quest,  —  name,  honor,  life,  — 

My  lord,  the  stake  is  great,  and  are  you  sure  .... 

Don  Silva. 

No,  I  am  sure  of  naught  but  this,  Sephardo, 
That  I  will  go.    Prudence  is  but  conceit 
Hoodwinked  by  ignorance.    There 's  naught  exists 
That  is  not  dangerous  and  holds  not  death 
For  souls  or  bodies.    Prudence  turns  its  helm 
To  flee  the  storm  and  lands  'mid  pestilence. 
Wisdom  must  end  by  throwing  dice  with  folly 
But  for  dire  passion  which  alone  makes  choice. 
And  I  have  chosen  as  the  lion  robbed 
Chooses  to  turn  upon  the  ravisher. 
If  love  were  slack,  the  Prior's  imperious  will 
Would  move  it  to  outmatch  him.    But,  Sephardo, 
Were  all  else  mute,  all  passive  as  sea-calms, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  163 

My  soul  is  one  great  hunger,  —  I  must  see  her. 
Now  you  are  smiling.    Oh,  you  merciful  men 
Pick  up  coarse  griefs  and  fling  them  in  the  face 
Of  us  whom  life  with  long  descent  has  trained 
To  subtler  pains,  mocking  your  ready  balms. 
You  smile  at  my  soul's  hunger. 

Sephakdo. 

Science  smiles 
And  sways  our  lips  in  spite  of  us,  my  lord, 
When  thought  weds  fact,  —  when  maiden  prophecy 
Waiting,  believing,  sees  the  bridal  torch. 
I  use  not  vulgar  measures  for  your  grief. 
My  pity  keeps  no  cruel  feasts  5  but  thought 
Has  joys  apart,  even  in  blackest  woe, 
And  seizing  some  fine  thread  of  verity 
Knows  momentary  godhead. 

Don  Silva. 

And  your  thought  ? 
Sephardo. 

Seized  on  the  close  agreement  of  your  words 
With  what  is  written  in  your  horoscope. 

Don  Silva. 

Reach  it  me  now. 

Sephardo. 
By  your  leave,  Annibal. 
(He  places  Annibal  on  Pablo's  lap  and  rises. 
The  boy  moves  without  waking,  and  his  head 
falls  on  the  opposite  side,  Sephardo  fetches 
a  cushion  and  lays  Pablo's  head  gently  doicn 
upon  it,  then  goes  to  reach  the  parchment  from 
a  cabinet,  Annibal,  having  waked  up  in 
alarm,  shuts  his  eyes  quickly  again  and  pre- 
tends to  sleep,) 


164  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Doi^f  SiLYA. 

I  wish,  by  new  appliance  of  your  skill, 
Reading  afresh,  the  records  of  the  sky, 
You  could  detect  more  special  augury. 
Such  chance  oft  happens,  for  all  characters 
Must  shrink  or  widen,  as  our  wine-skins  do, 
Tor  more  or  less  that  we  can  pour  in  them  ; 
And  added  years  give  ever  a  new  key 
To  fixed  prediction. 

Sephardo  (returning  with  the  parchment  and  reseat- 
ing himself). 

True  ;  our  growing  thought 
Makes  growing  revelation.    But  demand  not 
Specific  augury,  as  of  sure  success 
In  meditated  projects,  or  of  ends 
To  be  foreknown  by  peeping  in  God's  scroll. 
I  say  —  nay,  Ptolemy  said  it,  but  wise  books 
Por  half  the  truths  they  hold  are  honored  tombs  — 
Prediction  is  contingent,  of  effects 
Where  causes  and  concomitants  are  mixed 
To  seeming  wealth  of  possibilities 
Beyond  our  reckoning.    Who  will  pretend 
To  tell  the  adventures  of  each  single  fish 
Within  the  Syrian  Sea  ?    Show  me  a  fish, 
I  '11  weigh  him,  tell  his  kind,  what  he  devoured. 
What  would  have  devoured  him,  —  but  for  one  Bias 
Who  netted  him  instead;  nay,  could  I  tell 
That  had  Bias  missed  him,  he  would  not  have  died 
Of  poisonous  mud,  and  so  made  carrion, 
Swept  off  at  last  by  some  sea-scavenger  ? 

Don  Silva. 
Ay,  now  you  talk  of  fishes,  you  get  hard. 
I  note  you  merciful  men  :  you  can  endure 
Torture  of  fishes  and  hidalgos.    Follows  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


165 


Sephardo. 

By  how  mucli,  then,  the  fortunes  of  a  man 

Are  made  of  elements  refined  and  mixed 

Beyond  a  tunny's,  what  our  science  tells 

Of  the  stars'  influence  hath  contingency 

In  special  issues.    Thus,  the  loadstone  draws, 

Acts  like  a  will  to  make  the  iron  submiss  5 

But  garlic  rubbing  it,  that  chief  effect 

Lies  in  suspense  ;  the  iron  keeps  at  large, 

And  garlic  is  controller  of  the  stone. 

And  so,  my  lord,  your  horoscope  declares 

Naught  absolutely  of  your  sequent  lot, 

But,  by  our  lore's  authentic  rules,  sets  forth 

What  gifts,  what  dispositions,  likelihoods, 

The  aspects  of  the  heavens  conspired  to  fuse 

With  your  incorporate  soul.    Aught  more  than  this 

Is  vulgar  doctrine.    For  the  ambient. 

Though  a  cause  regnant,  is  not  absolute, 

But  suffers  a  determining  restraint 

From  action  of  the  subject  qualities 

In  proximate  motion. 

Don  Silva. 

Yet  you  smiled  just  now 
At  some  close  fitting  of  my  horoscope 
With  present  fact,  —  with  this  resolve  of  mine 
To  quit  the  fortress  ? 

Sephardo. 

Nay,  not  so,  I  smiled. 
Observing  how  the  temper  of  your  soul 
Sealed  long  tradition  of  the  influence  shed 
By  the  heavenly  spheres.    Here  is  your  horoscope  : 
The  aspects  of  the  moon  with  Mars  conjunct. 
Of  Venus  and  the  Sun  with  Saturn,  lord 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  the  ascendant,  make  symbolic  speech 
Whereto  your  words  gave  running  paraphrase. 

Don  Silva  {impatiently). 
What  did  I  say  ? 

Sephardo. 

You  sx->oke  as  oft  you  did 
When  I  was  schooling  you  at  Cordova, 
And  lessons  on  the  noun  and  verb  were  drowned 
With  sudden  stream  of  general  debate 
On  things  and  actions.    Always  in  that  stream 
I  saw  the  play  of  babbling  currents,  saw 
A  nature  o'er-endowed  with  opposites 
Making  a  self  alternate,  where  each  hour 
Was  critic  of  the  last,  each  mood  too  strong 
For  tolerance  of  its  fellow  in  close  yoke. 
The  ardent  planets  stationed  as  supreme, 
Potent  in  action,  suffer  light  malign 
Prom  luminaries  large  and  coldly  bright 
Inspiring  meditative  doubt,  which  straight 
Doubts  of  itself,  by  interposing  act 
Of  Jupiter  in  the  fourth  house  fortified 
With  power  ancestral.    So,  my  lord,  I  read 
The  changeless  in  the  changing ;  so  I  read 
The  constant  action  of  celestial  powers 
Mixed  into  waywardness  of  mortal  men, 
Whereof  no  sage's  eye  can  trace  the  course 
And  see  the  close. 

Do]sr  Silva. 

Fruitful  result,  0  sage  ! 

Certain  uncertainty. 

Sephardo. 

Yea,  a  result 
Fruitful  as  seeded  earth,  where  certainty 
Would  be  as  barren  as  a  globe  of  gold. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


167 


I  love  you,  and  would  serve  you  well,  my  lord. 
Your  rashness  vindicates  itself  too  much, 
Puts  harness  on  of  cobweb  theory 
While  rushing  like  a  cataract.    Be  warned. 
Eesolve  with  you  is  a  fire-breathing  steed. 
But  it  sees  visions,  and  may  feel  the  air 
Impassable  with  thoughts  that  come  too  late, 
Rising  from  out  the  grave  of  murdered  honor. 
Look  at  your  image  in  your  horoscope : 

(Laying  the  horoscope  before  Silva.) 
You  are  so  mixed,  my  lord,  that  each  to-day 
May  seem  a  maniac  to  its  morrow. 

Don  Silva  {pushing  away  the  horoscope,  rising  and 
turning  to  look  out  at  the  open  window), 

No  ! 

No  morrow  e'er  will  say  that  I  am  mad 
Not  to  renounce  her.    Eisks  !  I  know  them  all. 
I  Ve  dogged  each  lurking,  ambushed  consequence. 
I 've  handled  every  chance  to  know  its  shape 
As  blind  men  handle  bolts.    Oh,  I 'm  too  sane  ! 
I  see  the  Prior's  nets.    He  does  my  deed  ; 
For  he  has  narrowed  all  my  life  to  this,  — 
That  I  must  find  her  by  some  hidden  means. 

(He  turns  and  stands  close  in  front  of  Sephardo.) 
One  word,  Sephardo,  —  leave  that  horoscope. 
Which  is  but  iteration  of  myself. 
And  give  me  promise.    Shall  I  count  on  you 
To  act  upon  my  signal  ?    Kings  of  Spain 
Like  me  have  found  their  refuge  in  a  Jew, 
And  trusted  in  his  counsel.    You  will  help  me  ? 

Sephardo. 
Yes,  my  lord,  I  will  help  you.  Israel 
Is  to  the  nations  as  the  body's  heart : 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Thus  saith  the  Book  of  Light :  and  I  will  act 
So  that  no  man  may  ever  say  through  me 

Your  Israel  is  naught/'  and  make  my  deeds 
The  mud  they  fling  upon  my  brethren. 
I  will  not  fail  you^  save^  —  you  know  the  terms  : 
I  am  a  Jew^  and  not  that  infamous  life 
That  takes  on  bastardy^  will  know  no  father, 
So  shrouds  itself  in  the  pale  abstract,  Man. 
You  should  be  sacrificed  to  Israel 
If  Israel  needed  it. 

Don  Silva. 

I  fear  not  that. 
I  am  no  friend  of  fines  and  banishment, 
Or  flames  that,  fed  on  heretics,  still  gape, 
And  must  have  heretics  made  to  feed  them  still. 
I  take  your  terms,  and,  for  the  rest,  your  love 
Will  not  forsake  me. 

Sephardo. 

'T  is  hard  Koman  love, 
That  looks  away  and  stretches  forth  the  sword 
Bared  for  its  master's  breast  to  run  upon. 
But  you  will  have  it  so.    Love  shall  obey. 

(Silva  turns  to  the  window  again,  and  is  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  looking  at  the  sky.) 

Don  Silva. 

See  now,  Sephardo,  you  would  keep  no  faith 
To  smooth  the  path  of  cruelty.  Confess, 
The  deed  I  would  not  do,  save  for  the  strait 
Another  brings  me  to  (quit  my  command, 
Resign  it  for  brief  space,  I  mean  no  more),  — 
Were  that  deed  branded,  then  the  brand  should  fix 
On  him  who  urged  me. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


169 


Sephardo. 

Will  it,  though,  my  lord  ? 
Don  Silva. 
I  speak  not  of  the  fact,  but  of  the  right. 

Sephardo. 

My  lord,  you  said  but  now  you  were  resolved. 
Question  not  if  the  world  will  be  unjust 
Branding  your  deed.    If  conscience  has  two  courts 
With  differing  verdicts,  where  shall  lie  the  appeal  ? 
Our  law  must  be  without  us  or  within. 
The  Highest  speaks  through  all  our  people's  voice, 
Custom,  tradition,  and  old  sanctities ; 
Or  he  reveals  himself  by  new  decrees 
Of  inward  certitude. 

Don  Silva. 

My  love  for  her 
Makes  highest  law,  must  be  the  voice  of  God. 

Sephardo. 

I  thought,  but  now,  you  seemed  to  make  excuse, 
And  plead  as  in  some  court  where  Spanish  knights 
Are  tried  by  other  laws  than  those  of  love. 

Don  Silva. 
'T  was  momentary.    I  shall  dare  it  all. 
How  the  great  planet  glows,  and  looks  at  me, 
And  seems  to  pierce  me  with  his  effluence ! 
Were  he  a  living  God,  these  rays  that  stir 
In  me  the  pulse  of  wonder  were  in  him 
Fulness  of  knowledge.    Are  you  certified, 
Sephardo,  that  the  astral  science  shrinks 
To  such  pale  ashes,  dead  symbolic  forms 
For  that  congenital  mixture  of  effects 
Which  life  declares  without  the  aid  of  lore  ? 


170  POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


If  there  are  times  propitious  or  malign 
To  our  first  framing,  then  must  all  events 
Have  favoring  periods  :  you  cull  your  plants 
By  signal  of  the  heavens,  then  why  not  trace 
As  others  would  by  astrologic  rule 
Times  of  good  augury  for  momentous  acts,  — 
As  secret  journeys  ? 

Sephardo. 

0  my  lord,  the  stars 
Act  not  as  witchcraft  or  as  muttered  spells. 
I  said  before  they  are  not  absolute, 
And  tell  no  fortunes.    I  adhere  alone 
To  such  tradition  of  their  agencies 
As  reason  fortifies. 

Don  Silva. 

A  barren  science ! 
Some  argue  now 't  is  folly.       were  as  well 
Be  of  their  mind.    If  those  bright  stars  had  will, 
But  they  are  fatal  fires,  and  know  no  love. 
Of  old,  I  think,  the  world  was  happier 
With  many  gods,  who  held  a  struggling  life 
As  mortals  do,  and  helped  men  in  the  straits 
Of  forced  misdoing.    I  doubt  that  horoscope. 

(Don  Silva  turns  from  the  windoiv  and 
seats  himself  opposite  Sephardo.) 
I  am  most  self-contained,  and  strong  to  bear. 
No  man  save  you  has  seen  my  trembling  lip 
Uttering  her  name,  since  she  was  lost  to  me. 
I  '11  face  the  progeny  of  all  my  deeds. 

Sephardo. 

May  they  be  fair  !    No  horoscope  makes  slaves. 
'T  is  but  a  mirror,  shows  one  image  forth. 
And  leaves  the  future  dark  with  endless  "ifs." 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


171 


Don  Silva. 

I  marvel,  my  Sephardo,  you  can  pincli 

With  confident  selection  these  few  grains, 

And  call  them  verity,  from  out  the  dust 

Of  crumbling  error.    Surely  such  thought  creeps, 

With  insect  exploration  of  the  world. 

Were  I  a  Hebrew,  now,  I  would  be  bold. 

Why  should  you  fear,  not  being  Catholic  ? 

Sephardo. 
Lo  !  you  yourself,  my  lord,  mix  subtleties 
With  gross  belief ;  by  momentary  lapse 
Conceive,  with  all  the  vulgar,  that  we  Jews 
Must  hold  ourselves  God's  outlaws,  and  defy 
All  good  with  blasphemy,  because  we  hold 
Your  good  is  evil ;  think  we  must  turn  pale 
To  see  our  portraits  painted  in  your  hell, 
And  sin  the  more  for  knowing  we  are  lost. 

Don  Silva. 

Eead  not  my  words  with  malice.    I  but  meant, 
My  temper  hates  an  over-cautious  march. 

Sephakdo. 

The  TJnnamable  made  not  the  search  for  truth 
To  suit  hidalgos'  temper.    I  abide 
By  that  wise  spirit  of  listening  reverence 
Which  marks  the  boldest  doctors  of  our  race. 
Tor  truth,  to  us,  is  like  a  living  child 
Born  of  two  parents  :  if  the  parents  part 
And  will  divide  the  child,  how  shall  it  live  ? 
Or,  I  will  rather  say :  Two  angels  guide 
The  path  of  man,  both  aged  and  yet  young, 
As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  years. 
On  one  he  leans :  some  call  her  Memory, 
And  some,  Tradition ;  and  her  voice  is  sweet. 


172  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With,  deep  mysterious  accords  :  the  other, 

Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 

A  light  divine  and  searching  on  the  earth, 

Compelling  eyes  and  footsteps.    Memory  yields, 

Yet  clings  with  loving  check,  and  shines  anew 

Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 

Our  angel  Reason  holds.    We  had  not  walked 

But  for  Tradition ;  we  walk  evermore 

To  higher  paths,  by  brightening  Reason's  lamp. 

Still  we  are  purblind,  tottering.    I  hold  less 

Than  Aben-Ezra,  of  that  aged  lore 

Brought  by  long  centuries  from  Chaldsean  plains ; 

The  Jew-taught  Florentine  rejects  it  all. 

For  still  the  light  is  measured  by  the  eye, 

And  the  weak  organ  fails.    I  may  see  ill ; 

But  over  all  belief  is  faithfulness, 

Which  fulfils  vision  with  obedience. 

So,  I  must  grasp  my  morsels  :  truth  is  oft 

Scattered  in  fragments  round  a  stately  pile 

Built  half  of  error ;  and  the  eye's  defect 

May  breed  too  much  denial.    But,  my  lord, 

I  weary  your  sick  soul.    Go  now  with  me 

Into  the  turret.    We  will  watch  the  spheres, 

And  see  the  constellations  bend  and  plunge 

Into  a  depth  of  being  where  our  eyes 

Hold  them  no  more.    We  '11  quit  ourselves  and  be 

The  red  Aldebaran  or  bright  Sirius, 

And  sail  as  in  a  solemn  voyage,  bound 

On  some  great  quest  we  know  not. 

Doisr  SiLVA. 

Let  us  go. 

She  may  be  watching  too,  and  thought  of  her 
Sways  me,  as  if  she  knew,  to  every  act 
Of  pure  allegiance. 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


173 


Sephardo. 

That  is  love's  perfection,  — 
Tuning  the  soul  to  all  her  harmonies 
So  that  no  chord  can  jar.    Now  we  will  mount. 

(Exeunt.) 


A  large  hall  in  the  Castle,  of  Moorish  architecture.  On  the 
side  where  the  windows  are,  an  outer  gallery.  Pages 
and  other  young  gentlemen  attached  to  Don  Silya's 
household,  gathered  chiefly  at  one  end  of  the  hall. 
Some  are  moving  about ;  others  are  lounging  on  the 
carved  benches  ;  others,  half  stretched  on  pieces  of 
matting  and  carpet,  are  gambling.  Arias,  a  stripling 
of  fifteen,  sings  by  snatches  in  a  boyish  treble,  as  he 
walks  up  and  down,  and  tosses  back  the  nuts  which 
another  youth  flings  toivards  him.  In  the  middle  Don 
Amador,  a  gaunt,  gray-haired  soldier,  in  a  handsome 
uniform,  sits  in  a  marble  red-cushioned  chair,  with  a 
large  book  spread  out  on  his  knees,  from  which  he  is 
reading  aloud,  while  his  voice  is  half  drowned  by  the 
talk  that  is  going  on  around  him,  flrst  one  voice  and 
then  another  surging  above  the  hum. 

Arias  (singing). 

There  was  a  holy  hermit 

TVho  counted  all  things  loss 
For  Christ  his  Master^ s  glory  : 

He  made  an  ivory  cross, 
And  as  he  knelt  before  it 

And  wept  his  murdered  Lord, 
The  ivory  turned  to  iron, 

The  cross  became  a  sword. 


174 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Jose  (^from  the  floor). 
I  saj;  twenty  cruzados  !  tliy  Galician  wit 
Can  never  count. 

Hernando  (also  from  the  floor). 
And  thy  Sevillian  wit  always  counts  double. 

Arias  (singing). 

The  tears  that  fell  upon  it. 

They  turned  to  red,  red  rust, 
The  tears  that  fell  from  off  it 

Made  writing  in  the  dust. 
The  holy  hermit,  gazing, 

Saw  words  upon  the  ground  : 

The  sword  he  red  forever 

With  the  hlood  of  false  Mahound.^^ 

Don  Amador  (looking  up  from  his  hook,  and  raising 
his  voice). 

Wliatj  gentlemen  !    Our  glorious  Lady  defend  us  ! 

Enriquez  (from  the  henches). 

Serves  the  infidels  right !  They  have  sold  Christians 
enough  to  people  half  the  towns  in  Paradise.  If  the 
Queen,  now,  had  divided  the  pretty  damsels  of  Malaga 
among  the  Castilians  who  have  been  helping  in  the  holy 
war,  and  not  sent  half  of  them  to  Naples  .... 

Arias  (singing  again). 

At  the  hattle  of  Clavijo 
In  the  days  of  King  Ramiro, 
Help  us,  Allah!  cried  the  Moslem, 
Cried  the  Spaniard,  Heo.ven^s  chosen, 

God  and  Santiago  I 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


175 


Fabian-. 

Oh;  the  very  tail  of  our  chance  has  vanished.  The 
royal  army  is  breaking  up,  —  going  home  for  the  winter. 
The  Grand  Master  sticks  to  his  own  border. 


Arias  (singing). 

Straight  out-flushing  like  the  rainbow. 
See  him  come,  celestial  Baron, 
Mounted  knight,  with  red-crossed  banner, 
Plunging  earthward  to  the  battle. 

Glorious  Santiago  ! 

HURTADO. 

Yes,  yes,  through  the  pass  of  By-and-by  you  go  to  the 
valley  of  ISTever.  We  might  have  done  a  great  feat,  if 
the  Marquis  of  Cadiz  .... 

Arias  (sings). 

As  the  flame  before  the  swift  loind. 

See,  he  fires  us,  we  burn  with  him  I 

Flash  our  sivords,  dash  Pa.gans  backward,  — 

Victory  he  I  pale  fear  is  allah  ! 

God  with  Santiago  ! 

DoK  Amador  (raising  his  voice  to  a  cry), 
Sangre  de  Dios,  gentlemen ! 

(He  shuts  the  book,  and  lets  it  fall  ivith  a  bang 
on  the  floor.  There  is  instant  silence.) 
To  what  good  end  is  it  that  I,  who  studied  at  Sala- 
manca, and  can  write  verses  agreeable  to  the  glorious 
Lady  with  the  point  of  a  sword  which  hath  done  harder 
service,  am  reading  aloud  in  a  clerkly  manner  from  a 
book  which  hath  been  culled  from  the  flowers  of  all 
books,  to  instruct  you  in  the  knowledge  befitting  those 


176  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


who  would  be  knights  and  worthy  hidalgos.  I  had  a?^ 
lief  be  reading  in  a  belfry.  And  gambling  too  !  As  ii 
it  were  a  time  when  we  needed  not  the  help  of  God  anc" 
the  saints !  Surely  for  the  space  of  one  hour  ye  migh' 
subdue  your  tongues  to  your  ears  that  so  your  tongue 
might  learn  somewhat  of  civility  and  modesty.  Where 
fore  am  I  master  of  the  Duke's  retinue,  if  my  voice  is  to 
run  along  like  a  gutter  in  a  storm  ? 

Hurt  ADO  {lifting  up  the  hook,  and  respectfully  pre- 
senting it  to  Don  Amador). 
Pardon,  Don  Amador  !    The  air  is  so  commoved  by 
your  voice,  that  it  stirs  our  tongues  in  spite  of  us. 

Don  Amador  (reopening  the  hook). 

Confess,  now,  it  is  a  goose-headed  trick,  that  when 
rational  sounds  are  made  for  your  edification,  you  find 
naught  in  it  but  an  occasion  for  purposeless  gabble.  I 
will  report  it  to  the  Duke,  and  the  reading-time  shall  be 
doubled,  and  my  office  of  reader  shall  be  handed  over  to 
Fray  Domingo. 

{While  Don  Amador  has  been  speaking,  Don 
SiLVA,  with  Don  Alvar,  has  appeared  walk- 
ing in  the  outer  gallery  on  which  the  windows 
are  opened.) 

All  {in  concert). 

No,  no,  no. 

Don  Amador. 

Are  ye  ready,  then,  to  listen,  if  I  finish  the  wholesome 
extract  from  the  Seven  Parts,  wherein  the  wise  King 
Alfonso  hath  set  down  the  reason  why  knights  should 
be  of  gentle  birth  ?    Will  ye  now  be  silent  ? 

All. 

Yes,  silent. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


177 


Don  Amador. 
But  when  I  pause,  and  look  up,  I  give  any  leave  to 
speak,  if  lie  hath  aught  pertinent  to  say. 

(Eeads.) 

And  this  nobility  cometli  in  three  ways :  Jlrst^  by 
lineage ;  secondly,  by  science ;  and  thirdly,  by  valor  and 
worthy  behavior.  Now,  although  they  who  gain  nobility 
through  science  or  good  deeds  are  rightfully  called  noble 
and  gentle  ;  nevertheless,  they  are  with  the  highest  fit- 
ness so  called  who  are  noble  by  ancient  lineage,  and  lead 
a  worthy  life  as  by  inheritance  from  afar ;  and  hence  are 
more  bound  and  constrained  to  act  well,  and  guard  them- 
selves from  error  and  wrong-doing ;  for  in  their  case  it 
is  more  true  that  by  evil-doing  they  bring  injury  and 
shame  not  only  on  themselves,  but  also  on  those  from 
whom  they  are  derived." 

(Don  Amador  places  his  forefinger  for  a  marJc  on 
the  page,  and  looks  up,  while  he  keeps  his  voice 
raised,  as  wishing  Don  Silva  to  overhear  him 
in  the  judicious  discharge  of  his  function^ 

Hear  ye  that,  young  gentlemen  ?  See  ye  not  that  if 
ye  have  but  bad  manners  even,  they  disgrace  you  more 
than  gross  misdoings  disgrace  the  low-born  ?  Think 
you.  Arias,  it  becomes  the  son  of  your  house  irrever- 
ently to  sing  and  fling  nuts,  to  the  interruption  of  your 
elders  ? 

Arias  {sitting  on  the  floor  and  leaning  backward  on 
his  elbows). 

Nay,  Don  Amador;  King  Alfonso,  they  say,  was  a 
heretic,  and  I  think  that  is  not  true  writing.  For  noble 
birth  gives  us  more  leave  to  do  ill  if  we  like. 

Don  Amador  (lifting  his  brows). 

What  bold  and  blasphemous  talk  is  this  ? 

12 


178  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Arias. 

Why,  nobles  are  only  punished  now  and  then,  in  a 
grand  way,  and  have  their  heads  cut  off,  like  the  Grand 
Constable.    I  should  n't  mind  that. 

Jose. 

Nonsense,  Arias !  nobles  have  their  heads  cut  off  be- 
cause their  crimes  are  noble.  If  they  did  what  was 
unknightly,  they  would  come  to  shame.  Is  n't  that  true, 
Don  Amador  ? 

DoK  Amador. 
Arias  is  a  contumacious  puppy,  who  will  bring  dis- 
honor on  his  parentage.    Pray,  sirrah,  whom  did  you 
ever  hear  speak  as  you  have  spoken  ? 

Arias. 

Nay,  I  speak  out  of  my  own  head.  I  shall  go  and  ask 
the  Duke. 

Hurt  ADO. 
Now,  now  !  you  are  too  bold.  Arias. 

Arias. 

Oh,  he  is  never  angry  with  me  (dropping  his  voice), 
because  the  lady  Fedalma  liked  me.  She  said  I  was 
a  good  boy,  and  pretty,  and  that  is  what  you  are  not, 
Hurtado. 

HURTADO, 

Girl-face  !    See,  now,  if  you  dare  ask  the  Duke. 

(Don  Silva  ^5  just  entering  the  hall  from  the 
gallery,  with  Alvar  behind  him,  intending  to 
pass  out  at  the  other  end.  All  rise  with  hom- 
age, Don  Silva  hows  coldly  and  abstractedly. 
Arias  advances  from  the  group,  and  goes  up  to 
Don  Silva.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


179 


Arias. 

My  lord,  is  it  true  that  a  noble  is  more  dishonored 
than  other  men  if  he  does  aught  dishonorable  ? 

Don  Silya  {first  blushing  deeply^  and  grasping  his  sword, 
theM  raising  his  hand  and  giving  Arias  a  blow  on  the 
ear), 
Varlet ! 

Arias. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  gentleman. 
(Don  Silva  pushes  him  away,  and  passes  on  hur- 
riedly, ) 

Don  Alvar  (^following  and  turning  to  speak). 
Go,  go  !  you  should  not  speak  to  the  Duke  when  you 
are  not  called  upon.    He  is  ill  and  much  distempered. 

(Arias  retires,  flashed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
His  companions  look  too  much  surprised  to  tri- 
umph, Don  Amador  remains  silent  and  con- 
fused.) 


The  Pla^a  Santiago  during  busy  market  time.  Mules 
and  asses  laden  with  fruits  and  vegetables.  Stalls 
and  booths  filled  with  wares  of  all  sorts.  A  crowd  of 
buyers  and  sellers.  A  stalwart  woman  with  keen  eyes, 
leaning  over  the  panniers  of  a  mule  laden  with  apples, 
watches  Lorenzo,  who  is  lounging  through  the  mar- 
ket.   As  he  approaches  Ker,  he  is  met  by  Blasco. 

Lorenzo. 

Well  met,  friend. 

Blasco. 
Ay,  for  we  are  soon  to  part, 
And  I  would  see  you  at  the  hostelry. 
To  take  my  reckoning.    I  go  forth  to-day. 


180 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Lorenzo. 

'T  is  grievous  parting  with  good  company. 
I  would  I  had  the  gold  to  pay  such  guests 
For  all  my  pleasure  in  their  talk. 

Blasco. 

Why,  yes ; 

A  solid-headed  man  of  Aragon 

Has  matter  in  him  that  you  Southerners  lack. 

You  like  my  company,  —  't  is  natural. 

But,  look  you,  I  have  done  my  business  well, 

Have  sold  and  ta'en  commissions.    I  come  straight 

From  —  you  know  who  —  I  like  not  naming  him. 

I 'm  a  thick  man :  you  reach  not  my  backbone 

With  any  toothpick.    But  I  tell  you  this  : 

He  reached  it  with  his  eye,  right  to  the  marrow ! 

It  gave  me  heart  that  I  had  plate  to  sell, 

For,  saint  or  no  saint,  a  good  silversmith 

Is  wanted  for  God's  service  ;  and  my  plate  — 

He  judged  it  well  —  bought  nobly. 

Lorenzo. 

A  great  man, 

And  holy ! 

Blasco. 
Yes,  I 'm  glad  I  leave  to-day. 
For  there  are  stories  give  a  sort  of  smell,  — 
One's  nose  has  fancies.    A  good  trader,  sir, 
Likes  not  this  plague  of  lapsing  in  the  air, 
Most  caught  by  men  with  funds.    And  they  do  say 
There 's  a  great  terror  here  in  Moors  and  Jews, 
I  would  say.  Christians  of  unhappy  blood. 
'T  is  monstrous,  sure,  that  men  of  substance  lapse, 
And  risk  their  property.    I  know  I 'm  sound. 
No  heresy  was  ever  bait  to  me.  Whatever 
Is  the  right  faith,  that  I  believe,  —  naught  else. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


181 


Lorenzo. 

Ay,  truly,  for  tlie  flavor  of  true  faith 

Once  known  must  sure  be  sweetest  to  the  taste. 

But  an  uneasy  mood  is  now  abroad 

Within  the  town ;  partly,  for  that  the  Duke 

Being  sorely  sick,  has  yielded  the  command 

To  Don  Diego,  a  most  valiant  man. 

More  Catholic  than  the  Holy  Father's  self, 

Half  chiding  God  that  he  will  tolerate 

A  Jew  or  Arab ;  though 't  is  plain  they  're  made 

For  profit  of  good  Christians.    And  weak  heads  — • 

Panic  will  knit  all  disconnected  facts  — 

Draw  hence  belief  in  evil  auguries, 

Eumors  of  accusation  and  arrest. 

All  air-begotten.    Sir,  you  need  not  go. 

But  if  it  must  be  so,  I  '11  follow  you 

In  fifteen  minutes,  —  finish  marketing. 

Then  be  at  home  to  speed  you  on  your  way. 

Blasco. 

Do  so.    I  '11  back  to  Saragossa  straight. 

The  court  and  nobles  are  retiring  now 

And  wending  northward.    There  '11  be  fresh  demand 

For  bells  and  images  against  the  Spring, 

When  doubtless  our  great  Catholic  sovereigns 

Will  move  to  conquest  of  these  eastern  parts, 

And  cleanse  Granada  from  the  infidel. 

Stay,  sir,  with  God  until  we  meet  again ! 

Lorenzo. 

Go,  sir,  with  God,  until  I  follow  you ! 

(Exit  Blasco.  Lorenzo  passes  on  towards  the 
market-woman^  who,  as  he  approaches,  raises 
herself  from  her  leaning  attitude.) 


182  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lorenzo. 

Good  day,  my  mistress.    How 's  your  merchandise  ? 

Fit  for  a  host  to  buy  ?    Your  apples  now, 

They  have  fair  cheeks  ;  how  are  they  at  the  core  ? 

Market-Woma^t. 
Good,  good,  sir !    Taste  and  try.    See,  here  is  one 
Weighs  a  man's  head.    The  best  are  bound  with  tow : 
They  're  worth  the  pains,  to  keep  the  peel  from  splits. 
(^She  takes  out  an  apple  hound  with  tow,  and,  as 
she  puts  it  into  Lorenzo's  hand,  speaks  in  a 
lower  tone.) 
'T  is  called  the  Miracle.    You  open  it, 
And  find  it  full  of  speech. 

Lorenzo. 

Ay,  give  it  me, 
I  '11  take  it  to  the  Doctor  in  the  tower. 
He  feeds  on  fruit,  and  if  he  likes  the  sort 
I  '11  buy  them  for  him.    Meanwhile,  drive  your  ass 
Round  to  my  hostelry.    I  '11  straight  be  there. 
You  '11  not  refuse  some  barter  ? 

Market-Woman. 

ISTo,  not  I. 

Feathers  and  skins. 

Lorenzo. 

Good,  till  we  meet  again. 
(Lorenzo,  after  smelling  at  the  apple,  puts  it  into 
a  pouch-like  basket  which  hangs  before  him,  and 
walks  away.   The  woman  drives  off  the  mule.) 

A  Letter. 
"  Zarca,  the  chief  of  the  Zincali,  greets 
The  King  El  Zagal.    Let  the  force  be  sent 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


With  utmost  swiftness  to  the  Pass  of  Luz. 

A  good  five  hundred  added  to  my  bands 

Will  master  all  the  garrison  :  the  town 

Is  half  with  us,  and  will  not  lift  an  arm 

Save  on  our  side.    My  scouts  have  found  a  way 

Where  once  we  thought  the  fortress  most  secure 

Spying  a  man  upon  the  height,  they  traced, 

By  keen  conjecture  piecing  broken  sight, 

His  downward  path,  and  found  its  issue.  There 

A  file  of  us  can  mount,  surprise  the  fort 

And  give  the  signal  to  our  friends  within 

To  ope  the  gates  for  our  confederate  bands, 

Who  will  lie  eastward  ambushed  by  the  rocks, 

Waiting  the  night.    Enough  ;  give  me  command;, 

Bedmar  is  yours.    Chief  Zarca  will  redeem 

His  pledge  of  highest  service  to  the  Moor : 

Let  the  Moor,  too,  be  faithful  and  repay 

The  Gypsy  with  the  furtherance  he  needs 

To  lead  his  people  over  Bahr  el  Scham 

And  plant  them  on  the  shore  of  Africa. 

So  may  the  King  El  Zagal  live  as  one 

Who,  trusting  Allah  will  be  true  to  him, 

Maketh  himself  as  Allah  true  to  friends." 


BOOK  III. 


QUIT  now  the  town,  and  with  a  journeying,  dream 
Swift  as  the  wings  of  sound  yet  seeming  slow 
Through  multitudinous  compression  of  stored  sense 
And  spiritual  space,  see  walls  and  towers 
Lie  in  the  silent  whiteness  of  a  trance, 
Giving  no  sign  of  that  warm  life  within 
That  moves  and  murmurs  through  their  hidden  heart. 
Pass  o'er  the  mountain,  wind  in  sombre  shade, 
Then  wind  into  the  light  and  see  the  town 
Shrunk  to  white  crust  upon  the  darken  rock. 
Turn  east  and  south,  descend,  then  rise  anew 
'Mid  smaller  mountains  ebbing  towards  the  plain : 
Scent  the  fresh  breath  of  the  height-loving  herbs 
That,  trodden  by  the  pretty  parted  hoofs 
Of  nimble  goats,  sigh  at  the  innocent  bruise, 
And  with  a  mingled  difference  exquisite 
Pour  a  sweet  burden  on  the  buoyant  air. 
Pause  now  and  be  all  ear.    Far  from  the  south, 
Seeking  the  listening  silence  of  the  heights, 
Comes  a  slow-dying  sound,  —  the  Moslems'  call 
To  prayer  in  afternoon.    Bright  in  the  sun 
Like  tall  white  sails  on  a  green  shadowy  sea 
Stand  Moorish  watch-towers  :  'neath  that  eastern  sky 
Couches  unseen  the  strength  of  Moorish  Baza  : 
Where  the  meridian  bends  lies  Guadix,  hold 
Of  brave  El  Zagal.    This  is  Moorish  land, 
Where  Allah  lives  unconquered  in  dark  breasts 
And  blesses  still  the  many-nourishing  earth 
With  dark-armed  industry.    See  from  the  steep 
The  scattered  olives  hurry  in  gray  throngs 
Down  towards  the  valley,  where  the  little  stream 


186 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Parts  a  green  hollow  'twixt  the  gentler  slopes ; 

And  in  that  hollow,  dwellings  :  not  white  homes 

Of  building  Moors,  but  little  swarthy  tents 

Such  as  of  old  perhaps  on  Asian  plains, 

Or  wending  westward  past  the  Caucasus, 

Our  fathers  raised  to  rest  in.    Close  they  swarm 

About  two  taller  tents,  and  viewed  afar 

Might  seem  a  dark-robed  crowd  in  penitence 

That  silent  kneel ;  but  come  now  in  their  midst 

And  watch  a  busy,  bright-eyed,  sportive  life  ! 

Tall  maidens  bend  to  feed  the  tethered  goat, 

The  ragged  kirtle  fringing  at  the  knee 

Above  the  living  curves,  the  shoulder's  smoothness 

Parting  the  torrent  strong  of  ebon  hair. 

Women  with  babes,  the  wild  and  neutral  glance 

Swayed  now  to  sweet  desire  of  mothers'  eyes. 

Rock  their  strong  cradling  arms  and  chant  low  strains 

Taught  by  monotonous  and  soothing  winds 

That  fall  at  night-time  on  the  dozing  ear. 

The  crones  plait  reeds,  or  shred  the  vivid  herbs 

Into  the  caldron :  tiny  urchins  crawl 

Or  sit  and  gurgle  forth  their  infant  joy. 

Lads  lying  sphinx-like  with  uplifted  breast 

Propped  on  their  elbows,  their  black  manes  tossed  back, 

Fling  up  the  coin  and  watch  its  fatal  fall. 

Dispute  and  scramble,  run  and  wrestle  fierce, 

Then  fall  to  play  and  fellowship  again ; 

Or  in  a  thieving  swarm  they  run  to  plague 

The  grandsires,  who  return  with  rabbits  slung, 

And  with  the  mules  fruit-laden  from  the  fields. 

Some  striplings  choose  the  smooth  stones  from  the  brook 

To  serve  the  slingers,  cut  the  twigs  for  snares, 

Or  trim  the  hazel-wands,  or  at  the  bark 

Of  some  exploring  dog  they  dart  away 

With  swift  precision  towards  a  moving  speck. 


"  His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 
His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute." 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


187 


These  are  tlie  brood  of  Zarca's  Gypsy  tribe ; 
Most  like  an  earth-born  race  bred  by  the  Sun 
On  some  rich  tropic  soil,  the  father's  light 
Flashing  in  coal  black  eyes,  the  mother's  blood 
With  bounteous  elements  feeding  their  young  limbs. 
The  stalwart  men  and  youths  are  at  the  wars 
Following  their  chief,  all  save  a  trusty  band 
Who  keep  strict  watch  along  the  northern  heights. 

But  see,  upon  a  pleasant  spot  removed 

From  the  camp's  hubbub,  where  the  thicket  strong 

Of  huge-eared  cactus  makes  a  bordering  curve 

And  casts  a  shadow,  lies  a  sleeping  man 

With  Spanish  hat  screening  his  upturned  face, 

His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 

His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute 

That  seems  to  sleep  too,  leaning  tow'rds  its  lord. 

He  draws  deep  breath  secure  but  not  unwatched. 

Moving  a-tiptoe,  silent  as  the  elves. 

As  mischievous  too,  trip  three  barefooted  girls 

Not  opened  yet  to  womanhood,  —  dark  flowers 

In  slim  long  buds  :  some  paces  farther  off 

Gathers  a  little  white-teethed  shaggy  group, 

A  grinning  chorus  to  the  merry  play. 

The  tripping  girls  have  robbed  the  sleeping  man 

Of  all  his  ornaments.    Hita  is  decked 

With  an  embroidered  scarf  across  her  rags  ; 

Tralla,  with  thorns  for  pins,  sticks  two  rosettes 

Upon  her  threadbare  woollen  ;  Hinda  now, 

Prettiest  and  boldest,  tucks  her  kirtle  up 

As  wallet  for  the  stolen  buttons,  —  then 

Bends  with  her  knife  to  cut  from  off  the  hat 

The  aigrette  and  the  feather ;  deftly  cuts, 

Yet  wakes  the  sleeper,  who  with  sudden  start 

Shakes  off  the  masking  hat  and  shows  the  face 


188  POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Of  Juan  :  Hinda  swift  as  thought  leaps  back, 
But  carries  off  the  feather  and  aigrette, 
And  leads  the  chorus  of  a  happy  laugh, 
Eunning  with  all  the  naked-footed  imps. 
Till  with  safe  survey  all  can  face  about 
And  watch  for  signs  of  stimulating  chase, 
While  Hinda  ties  long  grass  around  her  brow 
To  stick  the  feather  in  with  majesty. 
Juan  still  sits  contemplative,  with  looks 
Alternate  at  the  spoilers  and  their  work. 

Juan. 

Ah,  you  marauding  kite,  —  my  feather  gone  ! 

My  belt,  my  scarf,  my  buttons  and  rosettes  ! 

This  is  to  be  a  brother  of  Zincali  ! 

The  fiery-blooded  children  of  the  Sun,  — 

So  says  chief  Zarca,  —  children  of  the  Sun  ! 

Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 

To  plague  the  decent  body  of  mankind. 

Orpheus,  professor  of  the  gai  saber, 

Made  all  the  brutes  polite,  they  say,  by  dint  of  song. 

Pregnant,  —  but  as  a  guide  in  daily  life 

Delusive.    For  if  song  and  music  cure 

The  barbarous  trick  of  thieving,  't  is  a  cure 

That  works  as  slowly  as  old  Doctor  Time 

In  curing  folly.    Why,  the  minxes  there 

Have  rhythm  in  their  toes,  and  music  rings 

As  readily  from  them  as  from  little  bells 

Swung  by  the  breeze.    Well,  I  will  try  the  physic. 

[He  touches  his  lute.) 
Hem !  taken  rightly,  any  single  thing 
The  Eabbis  say,  implies  all  other  things. 
A  knotty  task,  though,  the  unravelling 
Meum  and  Tuum  from  a  saraband  : 
It  needs  a  subtle  logic,  nay,  perhaps 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


189 


A  good  large  property,  to  see  the  thread. 

{He  touches  the  lute  again,) 
There 's  more  of  odd  than  even  in  this  world, 
Else  pretty  sinners  would  not  be  let  off 
Sooner  than  ugly ;  for  if  honeycombs 
Are  to  be  got  by  stealing,  they  should  go 
Where  life  is  bitterest  on  the  tongue.    And  yet,  — 
Because  this  minx  has  pretty  ways  I  wink 
At  all  her  tricks,  though  if  a  flat-faced  lass, 
With  eyes  askew,  were  half  as  bold  as  she, 
I  should  chastise  her  with  a  hazel  switch. 
I 'm  a  plucked  peacock,  —  even  my  voice  and  wit 
Without  a  tail !  —  why,  any  fool  detects 
The  absence  of  your  tail,  but  twenty  fools 
May  not  detect  the  presence  of  your  wit. 

{He  touches  his  lute  again.) 
Well,  I  must  coax  my  tail  back  cunningly, 
For  to  run  after  these  brown  lizards,  —  ah  ! 
I  think  the  lizards  lift  their  ears  at  this. 

(As  he  thrums  his  lute  the  lads  and  girls  gradu- 
ally approach :  he  touches  it  more  briskly ,  and 
HiNDA,  advancing,  begins  to  move  arms  and 
legs  with  an  initiatory  dancing  movement, 
smiling  coaxingly  at  Juan.  He  suddenly  stops, 
lays  down  his  lute  and  folds  his  arms.) 
What,  you  expected  a  tune  to  dance  to,  eh  ? 

HiNDA,  HiTA,  Tralla,  AND  THE  REST  (clapping 
their  hands). 
Yes,  yes,  a  tune,  a  tune  ! 

Juan. 

But  that  is  what  you  cannot  have,  my  sweet  brothers 
and  sisters.  The  tunes  are  all  dead,  —  dead  as  the  tunes 
of  the  lark  when  you  have  plucked  his  wings  off  j  dead 


190 


POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


as  the  song  of  the  grasshopper  when  the  ass  has  swal- 
lowed him.  I  can  play  and  sing  no  more.  Hmda  has 
killed  my  tunes. 

{All  cry  out  in  consternation,    Hinda  gives  a  wail 

and  tries  to  examine  the  lute.    JuA^^  waves  her 

off-) 

Understand,  Senora  Hinda,  that  the  tunes  are  in  me  ; 
they  are  not  in  the  lute  till  I  put  them  there.  And  if 
you  cross  my  humor,  I  shall  be  as  tuneless  as  a  bag  of 
wool.  If  the  tunes  are  to  be  brought  to  life  again,  I 
must  have  my  feather  back. 

(Hind A  kisses  his  hands  arid  feet  coaxingly?) 
No,  no !  not  a  note  will  come  for  coaxing.    The  feather, 
I  say,  the  feather ! 

(Hind A  sorroivfully  takes  off  the  feather,  and  gives 
it  to  Juan.) 

Ah,  now  let  us  see.    Perhaps  a  tune  will  come. 

{He  plays  a  measure,  and  the  three  girls  begin  to 
dance  ;  then  he  suddenly  stops.) 
No,  the  tune  will  not  come :  it  wants  the  aigrette 
{pointing  to  it  on  Hinda's  neck). 

(Hind A,  with  rather  less  hesitation,  hut  again  sor- 
rowfully, takes  off  the  aigrette,  and  gives  it  to 
him.) 

Ha!  {he  plays  again,  hut,  after  rather  a  longer  time, 
again  sto2^s.)  No,  no ;  't  is  the  buttons  are  wanting, 
Hinda,  the  buttons.  This  tune  feeds  chiefly  on  but- 
tons, —  a  hungry  tune.  It  wants  one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six.    Good ! 

{After  Hinda  has  given  up  the  huttons,  and  Juan 
has  laid  them  down  one  hy  one,  he  begins  to 
play  again,  going  on  longer  than  before,  so  that 
the  dancers  become  excited  hy  the  movement. 
Then  he  stops.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


191 


Ah,  Hita,  it  is  the  belt,  and,  Tralla,  the  rosettes,  — 
both  are  wanting.  I  see  the  tune  will  not  go  on  without 
them. 

(Hita  and  Tralla  take  off  the  belt  and  rosettes^ 
and  lay  them  down  quickly,  being  fired  by  the 
dancing  J  and  eager  for  the  music.    All  the  arti- 
cles lie  by  J uan's  side  on  the  ground^ 
Good,  good,  my  docile  wild-cats!    Now  I  think  the 
tunes  are  all  alive  again.    Now  you  may  dance  and  sing 
too.    Hinda,  my  little  screamer,  lead  off  with  the  song 
I  taught  you,  and  let  us  see  if  the  tune  will  go  right  on 
from  beginning  to  end. 

{He  plays.  The  dance  begins  again,  Hinda  singing. 
All  the  other  boys  and  girls  join  in  the  chorus, 
and  all  at  last  dance  icildly.) 

SOKG. 

All  things  journey :  sun  and  moon^ 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 

Night  and  all  her  stars  : 
^Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 

Round  they  journey. 
Com  e  and  go  I 

We  go  with  them  I 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  wild  ZincaWs  home. 

Earth  is  good,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  ashen  roots  and  makes 

Hungry  nostrils  glad : 
Then  we  run  till  we  are  mad^ 

Like  the  horses. 
And  we  cry. 

None  shall  catch  us  ! 
Swift  winds  wing  us,  —  we  are  free,  — 
Drink  the  air,  —  Zincali  we  ! 


192 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Falls  the  snoiv  :  the  pine-hranch  split. 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it  flit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run. 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  a  sun 

In  the  dark  tent  : 
0  warm  dark  I 

Warm  as  conies  ! 
Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  ! 
Who  shall  work  Zincali  harm  ? 

Onward  journey :  fires  are  spent ; 
Sunward,  sunward  !  lift  the  tent. 

Run  before  the  rain. 
Through  the  pass,  along  the  plain. 

Hurry,  hurry. 

Lift  us,  wind  ! 

Like  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  wild  ZincaWs  home, 

(When  the  dance  is  at  its  height.  Hind  A  breaks 
away  from  the  rest,  and  dances  round  Juan, 
who  is  now  standing.  As  he  turns  a  little  to 
watch  her  movement,  some  of  the  boys  skip 
towards  the  feather,  aigrette,  Sec,  snatch  them 
up,  and  run  away,  swiftly  followed  by  Hita, 
Tralla,  and  the  rest.  Hinda,  as  she  turns 
again,  sees  them,  screams,  and  falls  in  her  whirl- 
ing  ;  but  immediately  gets  up,  and  rushes  after 
them,  still  screaming  with  rage.) 

Juan. 

Santiago  !  these  imps  get  bolder.  Haha !  Senora  Hinda, 
this  finishes  your  lesson  in  ethics.  You  have  seen  the 
advantage  of  giving  up  stolen  goods.    ]S"ow  you  see  the 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


193 


ugliness  of  thieving  when  practised  by  others.  That 
fable  of  mine  about  the  tunes  was  excellently  devised. 
I  feel  like  an  ancient  sage  instructing  our  lisping  ances- 
tors. My  memory  will  descend  as  the  Orpheus  of  Gyp- 
sies. But  I  must  prepare  a  rod  for  those  rascals.  I  '11 
bastinado  them  with  prickly  pears.  It  seems  to  me 
these  needles  will  have  a  sound  moral  teaching  in  them. 
( While  J UAN  takes  a  knife  from  his  helt,  and  sur- 
veys the  prickly  pear  J  Hind  a  returns,') 

Juan. 

Pray,  Senora,  why  do  you  fume  ?  Did  you  want  to 
steal  my  ornaments  again  yourself  ? 

Hind  A  {sobbing), 
No ;  I  thought  you  would  give  them  me  back  again. 

Juan. 

What,  did  you  want  the  tunes  to  die  again  ?  Do  you 
like  finery  better  than  dancing  ? 

HiNDA. 

Oh,  that  was  a  tale;  I  shall  tell  tales  too,  when  I 
want  to  get  anything  I  can't  steal.  And  I  know  what 
I  will  do.  I  shall  tell  the  boys  I  Ve  found  some  little 
foxes,  and  I  will  never  say  where  they  are  till  they  give 
me  back  the  feather !  {She  runs  off  again.) 

Juan. 

Hem !  the  disciple  seems  to  seize  the  mode  sooner 
than  the  matter.  Teaching  virtue  with  this  prickly  pear 
may  only  teach  the  youngsters  to  use  a  new  weapon; 
as  your  teaching  orthodoxy  with  fagots  may  only  bring 
up  a  fashion  of  roasting.  Dios !  my  remarks  grow  too 
pregnant,  —  my  wits  get  a  plethora  by  solitary  feeding 
on  the  produce  of  my  own  wisdom. 

13 


194  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


(As  he  puts  up  his  knife  again,  Hinda  comes  run- 
ning/ back,  and  crying, Our  Queen  !  our  Queen  !  " 
JuAx  adjusts  his  garments  and  his  lute,  while 
HiNDA  turns  to  meet  Fedalma,  who  wears  a 
Moorish  dress,  with  gold  ornaments,  her  black 
hair  hanging  round  her  in  plaits,  a  white  turban 
on  her  head,  a  dagger  by  her  side.  She  carries 
a  scarf  on  her  left  arm,  which  she  holds  up  as 
a  shade.) 

Fed  ALMA  [patting  Hilda's  head). 
How  now,  wild  one  ?    You  are  liot  and  panting.  Go 
to  my  tent,  and  help  Nouna  to  plait  reeds. 

(HiNDA  kisses  Fedalma's  hand,  and  runs  off, 
Fedalma  advances  toivards  Juan,  who  kneels 
to  take  up  the  edge  of  her  cymar,  and  kisses  it) 

Juan. 

How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ?    You  look  sad. 
Fedalma. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart.    The  eye  of  day, 

The  insistent  summer  sun,  seems  pitiless, 

Shining  in  all  the  barren  crevices 

Of  weary  life,  leaving  no  shade,  no  dark, 

Where  I  may  dream  that  hidden  waters  lie ; 

As  pitiless  as  to  some  shipwrecked  man. 

Who,  gazing  from  his  narrow  shoal  of  sand 

On  the  wide  unspecked  round  of  blue  and  blue, 

Sees  that  full  light  is  errorless  despair. 

The  insects'  hum  that  slurs  the  silent  dark 

Startles,  and  seems  to  cheat  me,  as  the  tread 

Of  coming  footsteps  cheats  the  midnight  watcher 

Who  holds  her  heart  and  waits  to  hear  them  pause, 

And  hears  them  never  pause,  but  pass  and  die. 

Music  sweeps  by  me  as  a  messenger 


THE  SPAKESH  GYPSY. 


195 


Carrying  a  message  that  is  not  for  me. 

The  very  sameness  of  the  hills  and  sky 

Is  obduracy,  and  the  lingering  hours 

Wait  round  me  dumbly,  like  superfluous  slaves, 

Of  whom  I  want  naught  but  the  secret  news 

They  are  forbid  to  tell.    And,  Juan,  you  — 

You,  too,  are  cruel — would  be  over-wise 

In  judging  your  friend's  needs,  and  choose  to  hide 

Something  I  crave  to  know. 

Juan. 

I,  lady? 
Fedalma. 

You. 

Juan. 

I  never  had  the  virtue  to  hide  aught, 

Save  what  a  man  is  whipped  for  publishing. 

I 'm  no  more  reticent  than  the  voluble  air,  — 

Dote  on  disclosure, — never  could  contain 

The  latter  half  of  all  my  sentences, 

But  for  the  need  to  utter  the  beginning. 

My  lust  to  tell  is  so  importunate 

That  it  abridges  every  other  vice, 

And  makes  me  temperate  for  want  of  time. 

I  dull  sensation  in  the  haste  to  say 

'T  is  this  or  that,  and  choke  report  with  surmise. 

Judge,  then,  dear  lady,  if  I  could  be  mute 

When  but  a  glance  of  yours  had  bid  me  speak. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  sing  such  falsities  !  —  you  mock  me  worse 

By  speech  that  gravely  seems  to  ask  belief. 

You  are  but  babbling  in  a  part  you  play 

To  please  my  father.    Oh,  ^t  is  well  meant,  say  you,  — 

Pity  for  woman's  weakness.    Take  my  thanks. 


196 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Juan-. 

Thanks  angrily  bestowed  are  red-hot  coin 
Burning  your  servant's  palm. 

Fedalma. 

Deny  it  not, 
You  know  how  many  leagues  this  camp  of  ours 
Lies  from  Bedmar,  —  what  mountains  lie  between,  — 
Could  tell  me  if  you  would  about  the  Duke,  — 
That  he  is  comforted,  sees  how  he  gains 
By  losing  the  Zincala,  finds  how  slight 
The  thread  Fedalma  made  in  that  rich  web, 
A  Spanish  noble's  life.    No,  that  is  false  ! 
He  never  would  think  lightly  of  our  love. 
Some  evil  has  befallen  him,  —  he 's  slain,  — 
Has  sought  for  danger  and  has  beckoned  death 
Because  I  made  all  life  seem  treachery. 
Tell  me  the  worst,  —  be  merciful,  —  no  worst, 
Against  the  hideous  painting  of  my  fear. 
Would  not  show  like  a  better. 

Juan. 

If  I  speak, 

Will  you  believe  your  slave  ?    For  truth  is  scant ; 
And  where  the  appetite  is  still  to  hear 
And  not  believe,  falsehood  would  stint  it  less. 
How  say  you  ?    Does  your  hunger's  fancy  choose 
The  meagre  fact  ? 

Fedalma  (seating  herself  on  the  ground). 

Yes,  yes,  the  truth,  dear  Juan. 
Sit  now,  and  tell  me  all. 

J  UAN. 

That  all  is  naught. 
I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms  :  shoot  an  airy  guess 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


197 


And  bring  down  airy  likelihood,  —  some  lie 

Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 

And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free. 

Or  else  some  image  of  reality 

That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 

Ask  for  conjecture,  —  I  can  thread  the  sky 

Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist. 

On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 

Eight  to  Bedmar,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 

A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 

Is  better  stored. 

Fed  ALMA. 

And  you  have  gathered  naught 
About  the  border  wars  ?    No  news,  no  hint 
Of  any  rumors  that  concern  the  Duke,  — 
Eumors  kept  from  me  by  my  father  ? 

Juan. 

None. 

Your  father  trusts  no  secrets  to  the  echoes. 

Of  late  his  movements  have  been  hid  from  all 

Save  those  few  hundred  picked  Zincali  breasts 

He  carries  with  him.    Think  you  he 's  a  man 

To  let  his  projects  slip  from  out  his  belt, 

Then  whisper  him  who  haps  to  find  them  strayed 

To  be  so  kind  as  keep  his  counsel  well  ? 

Why,  if  he  found  me  knowing  aught  too  much, 

He  would  straight  gag  or  strangle  me,  and  say, 

"  Poor  hound !  it  was  a  pity  that  his  bark 

Could  chance  to  mar  my  plans  :  he  loved  my  daughter,  — 

The  idle  hound  had  naught  to  do  but  love. 

So  followed  to  the  battle  and  got  crushed.'^ 

Fed  ALMA  (Jiolding  out  her  handy  which  Juan  kisses). 
Good  Juan,  I  could  have  no  nobler  friend. 
You 'd  ope  your  veins  and  let  your  life-blood  out 


198  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To  save  another's  pain,  yet  hide  the  deed 

With  jesting,  — say,  'twas  merest  accident, 

A  sportive  scratch  that  went  by  chance  too  deep,  — 

And  die  content  with  men's  slight  thought  of  you, 

Finding  your  glory  in  another's  joy. 

Juan. 

Dub  not  my  likings  virtues,  lest  they  get 
A  drug-like  taste,  and  breed  a  nausea. 
Honey 's  not  sweet,  commended  as  cathartic. 
Such  names  are  parchment  labels  upon  gems 
Hiding  their  color.    What  is  lovely  seen 
Priced  in  a  tariff  ?  —  lapis  lazuli, 
Such  bulk,  so  many  drachmas  :  amethysts 
Quoted  at  so  much ;  sapphires  higher  still. 
The  stone  like  solid  heaven  in  its  blueness 
Is  what  I  care  for,  not  its  name  or  price. 
So,  if  I  live  or  die  to  serve  my  friend, 
^T  is  for  my  love,  —  't  is  for  my  friend  alone, 
And  not  for  any  rate  that  friendship  bears 
In  heaven  or  on  earth.    Nay,  I  romance,  — 
I  talk  of  Roland  and  the  ancient  peers. 
In  me 't  is  hardly  friendship,  only  lack 
Of  a  substantial  self  that  holds  a  weight ; 
So  I  kiss  larger  things  and  roll  with  them. 

Pedalma. 

N"ay,  you  will  never  hide  your  soul  from  me  ; 
I  've  seen  the  jewel's  flash,  and  know 't  is  there, 
Muffle  it  as  you  will.    That  foam-like  talk 
Will  not  wash  out  a  fear  which  blots  the  good 
Your  presence  brings  me.    Oft  I 'm  pierced  afresh 
Through  all  the  pressure  of  my  selfish  griefs 
P>y  thought  of  you.    It  was  a  rash  resolve 
Made  you  disclose  yourself  when  you  kept  watch 


THE  SPAlsriSH  GYPSY. 


About  the  terrace  wall :  —  your  pity  leaped 
Seeing  my  ills  alone  and  not  your  loss, 
Self-doomed  to  exile.    Juan,  you  must  repent. 
'T  is  not  in  nature  that  resolve,  which  feeds 
On  strenuous  actions,  should  not  pine  and  die 
In  these  long  days  of  empty  listlessness. 

Juan. 

Eepent  ?    Kot  I.    Eepentance  is  the  weight 

Of  indigested  meals  eat  yesterday. 

'T  is  for  large  animals  that  gorge  on  prey, 

Not  for  a  honey-sipping  butterfly. 

I  am  a  thing  of  rhythm  and  redondillas,  — 

The  momentary  rainbow  on  the  spray 

Made  by  the  thundering  torrent  of  men's  lives : 

No  matter  whether  I  am  here  or  there  ; 

I  still  catch  sunbeams.    And  in  Africa, 

Where  melons  and  all  fruits,  they  say,  grow  large, 

Fables  are  real,  and  the  apes  polite, 

A  poet,  too,  may  prosper  past  belief : 

I  shall  grow  epic,  like  the  Florentine, 

And  sing  the  founding  of  our  infant  state, 

Sing  the  Zincalo's  Carthage. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Africa ! 

Would  we  were  there  !    Under  another  heaven, 

In  lands  where  neither  love  nor  memory 

Can  plant  a  selfish  hope,  — in  lands  so  far 

I  should  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  arms 

That  seek  me,  or  to  hear  the  voice  that  calls. 

I  should  feel  distance  only  and  despair ; 

So  rest  forever  from  the  thought  of  bliss. 

And  wear  my  weight  of  life's  great  chain  unstruggl 

Juan,  if  I  could  know  he  would  forget,  — 


200 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Nay,  not  forget,  forgive  me, — be  content 

That  I  forsook  him  for  no  joy,  but  sorrow ; 

For  sorrow  chosen  rather  than  a  joy 

That  destiny  made  base  !    Then  he  would  taste 

No  bitterness  in  sweet,  sad  memory^ 

And  I  should  live  unblemished  in  his  thought, 

Hallowed  like  her  who  dies  an  unwed  bride. 

Our  words  have  wings,  but  fly  not  where  we  would. 

Could  mine  but  reach  him,  Juan ! 

Juan. 

Speak  but  the  wish,  — 
My  feet  have  wings,  —  I  '11  be  your  Mercury. 
I  fear  no  shadowed  perils  by  the  way. 
No  man  will  wear  the  sharpness  of  his  sword 
On  me.    Nay,  I 'm  a  herald  of  the  Muse, 
Sacred  for  Moors  and  Spaniards.    I  will  go,  — 
Will  fetch  you  tidings  for  an  amulet. 
But  stretch  not  hope  too  strongly  towards  that  mark 
As  issue  of  my  wandering.    Given,  I  cross 
Safely  the  Moorish  border,  reach  Bedmar  : 
Fresh  counsels  may  prevail  there,  and  the  Duke 
Being  absent  in  the  field,  I  may  be  trapped. 
Men  who  are  sour  at  missing  larger  game 
May  wing  a  chattering  sparrow  for  revenge. 
It  is  a  chance  no  further  worth  the  note 
Than  as  a  warning,  lest  you  feared  worse  ill 
If  my  return  were  stayed.    I  might  be  caged ; 
They  would  not  harm  me  else.    Untimely  death, 
The  red  auxiliary  of  the  skeleton. 
Has  too  much  work  on  hand  to  think  of  me  ; 
Or,  if  he  cares  to  slay  me,  I  shall  fall 
Choked  with  a  grape-stone  for  economy. 
The  likelier  chance  is  that  I  go  and  come, 
Bringing  you  comfort  back. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


201 


Fed  ALMA  (starts  from  her  seat  and  walks  to  a  little 
distance^  standing  a  few  moments  with  her  hack  to- 
wards J  va:n,  then  she  turns  round  quickly,  and  goes 
towards  him), 

No,  Juan,  no ! 
Those  yearning  words  come  from  a  soul  infirm, 
Crying  and  struggling  at  the  pain  of  bonds 
Which  yet  it  would  not  loosen.    He  knows  all,  — 
All  that  he  needs  to  know :  I  said  farewell : 
I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 

would  yawn  behind  me.    I  must  walk  right  on. 
No,  Juan,  I  will  win  naught  by  risking  you : 
The  possible  loss  would  poison  hope.  Besides, 
'T  were  treachery  in  me  :  my  father  wills 
That  we  —  all  here  —  should  rest  within  this  camp. 
If  I  can  never  live,  like  him,  on  faith 
In  glorious  morrows,  I  am  resolute. 
"While  he  treads  painfully  with  stillest  step 
And  beady  brow,  pressed  'neath  the  weight  of  arms, 
Shall  I,  to  ease  my  fevered  restlessness, 
Eaise  peevish  moans,  shattering  that  fragile  silence  ? 
No !    On  the  close-thronged  spaces  of  the  earth 
A  battle  rages  :  Fate  has  carried  me 
'Mid  the  thick  arrows  :  I  will  keep  my  stand,  — 
Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 
To  pierce  another.    Oh,  't  is  written  large 
The  thing  I  have  to  do.    But  you,  dear  Juan, 
Renounce,  endure,  are  brave,  unurged  by  aught 
Save  the  sweet  overflow  of  your  good  will. 

{She  seats  herself  again.) 

JUAX. 

Nay,  I  endure  naught  worse  than  napping  sheep, 

When  nimble  birds  uproot  a  fleecy  lock 

To  line  their  nest  with.    See  !  your  bondsman,  Queen, 


202  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  minstrel  of  your  court,  is  featherless  ; 

Deforms  your  presence  by  a  moulting  garb; 

Shows  like  a  roadside  bush  culled  of  its  buds. 

Yetj  if  your  graciousness  will  not  disdain 

A  poor  plucked  songster,  —  shall  he  sing  to  you  ? 

Some  lay  of  afternoons,  —  some  ballad  strain 

Of  those  who  ached  once  but  are  sleeping  now 

Under  the  sun-warmed  flowers  ?    'T  will  cheat  the  time. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Thanks,  Juan,  later,  when  this  hour  is  passed. 
My  soul  is  clogged  with  self ;  it  could  not  float 
On  with  the  pleasing  sadness  of  your  song. 
Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  but  come  again,  — 
Come  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 

JUA]S^. 

Then  your  slave 
Will  go  to  chase  the  robbers.    Queen,  farewell ! 

Fed  ALMA. 

Best  friend,  my  well-spring  in  the  wilderness  ! 

[While  Juan  sped  along  the  stream,  there  came 
From  the  dark  tents  a  ringing  joyous  shout 
That  thrilled  Fedalma  with  a  summons  grave 
Yet  welcome  too.    Straightway  she  rose  and  stood, 
All  languor  banished,  with  a  soul  suspense, 
Like  one  who  waits  high  presence,  listening. 
Was  it  a  message,  or  her  father's  self 
That  made  the  camp  so  glad  ? 

It  was  himself ! 
She  saw  him  now  advancing,  girt  with  arms 
That  seemed  like  idle  trophies  hung  for  show 
Beside  the  weight  and  fire  of  living  strength 
That  made  his  frame.    He  glanced  with  absent  triumph, 
As  one  who  conquers  in  some  field  afar 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


203 


And  bears  off  -unseen  spoil.    But  nearing  her, 
His  terrible  eyes  intense  sent  forth  new  rays,  — 
A  sudden  sunshine  where  the  lightning  was 
'Twixt  meeting  dark.    All  tenderly  he  laid 
His  hand  upon  her  shoulder  ;  tenderly, 
His  kiss  upon  her  brow.] 

Zarca. 

My  royal  daughter ! 

Fed  ALMA. 
Father,  I  joy  to  see  your  safe  return. 

Zarca. 

Nay,  I  but  stole  the  time,  as  hungry  men 

Steal  from  the  morrow's  meal,  made  a  forced  march, 

Left  Hassan  as  my  watch-dog,  all  to  see 

My  daughter,  and  to  feed  her  famished  hope 

With  news  of  promise. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Is  the  task  achieved 
That  was  to  be  the  herald  of  our  flight  ? 

Zarca. 

Not  outwardly,  but  to  my  inward  vision 

Things  are  achieved  when  they  are  well  begun. 

The  perfect  archer  calls  the  deer  his  own 

While  yet  the  shaft  is  whistling.    His  keen  eye 

Never  sees  failure,  sees  the  mark  alone. 

You  have  heard  naught,  then,  —  had  no  messenger  ? 

Fed  ALMA. 
I,  father  ?  no  :  each  quiet  day  has  fled 
Like  the  same  moth,  returning  with  slow  wing. 
And  pausing  in  the  sunshine. 

Zarca. 

It  is  well. 

You  shall  not  long  count  days  in  weariness. 


204 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Ere  the  full  moon  has  waned  again  to  new, 
We  shall  reach  Almeria  :  Berber  ships 
Will  take  us  for  their  freight,  and  we  shall  go 
With  plenteous  spoil,  not  stolen,  bravely  won 
By  service  done  on  Spaniards.    Do  you  shrink  ? 
Are  you  aught  less  than  a  Zincala  ? 

Fed  ALMA. 

No; 

But  I  am  more.    The  Spaniards  fostered  me. 

Zarca. 

They  stole  you  first,  and  reared  you  for  the  flames. 
I  found  you,  rescued  you,  that  you  might  live 
A  true  Zincala's  life  ;  else  you  were  doomed. 
Your  bridal  bed  had  been  the  rack. 

Fed  ALMA  (in  a  low  tone). 

They  meant  — 

To  seize  me  ?  —  ere  he  came  ? 

Zarca. 

Yes,  I  know  all. 
They  found  your  chamber  empty. 

Fed  ALMA  (eagerly). 

Then  you  know,  — 
(  Checking  herself. ) 
Father,  my  soul  would  be  less  laggard,  fed 
With  fuller  trust. 

Zarca. 
My  daughter,  I  must  keep 
The  Arab's  secret.    Arabs  are  our  friends. 
Grappling  for  life  with  Christians  who  lay  waste 
Granada's  valleys,  and  with  devilish  hoofs 
Trample  the  young  green  corn,  with  devilish  play 
Fell  blossomed  trees,  and  tear  up  well-pruned  vines  : 
Cruel  as  tigers  to  the  vanquished  brave, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


205 


They  wring  out  gold  by  oaths  they  mean  to  break ; 

Take  pay  for  pity  and  are  pitiless ; 

Then  tinkle  bells  above  the  desolate  earth, 

And  praise  their  monstrous  gods,  supposed  to  love 

The  flattery  of  liars.    I  will  strike 

The  full-gorged  dragon.    You,  my  child,  must  watch 

The  battle  with  a  heart,  not  fluttering 

But  duteous,  firm-weighted  by  resolve. 

Choosing  between  two  lives,  like  her  who  holds 

A  dagger  which  must  pierce  one  of  two  breasts. 

And  one  of  them  her  father's,    l^ay,  you  divine,  — 

I  speak  not  closely,  but  in  parables ; 

Put  one  for  many. 

Fedalma  (collecting  herself,  and  looking  firmly  at 
Zarca). 
Then  it  is  your  will 

That  I  ask  nothing  ? 

Zarca, 
You  shall  know  enough 
To  trace  the  sequence  of  the  seed  and  flower. 
El  Zagal  trusts  me,  rates  my  counsel  high : 
He,  knowing  I  have  won  a  grant  of  lands 
Within  the  Berber's  realm,  wills  me  to  be 
The  tongue  of  his  good  cause  in  Africa, 
So  gives  us  furtherance  in  our  pilgrimage 
For  service  hoped,  as  well  as  service  done 
In  that  great  feat  of  which  I  am  the  eye. 
And  my  three  hundred  Gypsies  the  best  arm. 
More,  I  am  charged  by  other  noble  Moors 
With  messages  of  weight  to  Telemsan. 
Ha,  your  eye  flashes.    Are  you  glad  ? 

Fedalma. 

Yes,  glad 

That  men  are  forced  to  honor  a  Zincalo. 


206 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Zakca. 

Oh  fighting  for  dear  life  men  choose  their  swords 
For  cutting  only,  not  for  ornament. 
What  naught  but  Nature  gives,  man  takes  perforce 
Where  she  bestows  it,  though  in  vilest  place. 
Can  he  compress  invention  out  of  pride, 
Make  heirship  do  the  work  of  muscle,  sail 
Towards  great  discoveries  with  a  pedigree  ? 
Sick  men  ask  cures,  and  Nature  serves  not  hers 
Daintily  as  a  feast.    A  blacksmith  once 
Founded  a  dynasty  and  raised  on  high 
The  leathern  apron  over  armies  spread 
Between  the  mountains  like  a  lake  of  steel. 

Fedalma  {bitterly'). 
To  be  contemned,  then,  is  fair  augury. 
That  pledge  of  future  good  at  least  is  ours. 

Zarca. 

Let  men  contemn  us  :  't  is  such  blind  contempt 

That  leaves  the  winged  broods  to  thrive  in  warmth 

Unheeded,  till  they  fill  the  air  like  storms. 

So  we  shall  thrive,  —  still  darkly  shall  draw  force 

Into  a  new  and  multitudinous  life 

That  likeness  fashions  to  community. 

Mother  divine  of  customs,  faith,  and  laws. 

'T  is  ripeness,  't  is  fame's  zenith  that  kills  hope. 

Huge  oaks  are  dying,  forests  yet  to  come 

Lie  in  the  twigs  and  rotten-seeming  seeds. 

Fedalma. 

And  our  Zincali  ?    Under  their  poor  husk 
Do  you  discern  such  seed  ?    You  said  our  band 
Was  the  best  arm  of  some  hard  enterprise ; 
They  give  out  sparks  of  virtue,  then,  and  show 
There metal  in  their  earth  ? 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


207 


Zarca. 

Ay,  metal  fine 

In  my  brave  Gypsies.    Kot  the  lithest  Moor 
Has  lither  limbs  for  scaling,  keener  eye 
To  mark  the  meaning  of  the  farthest  speck 
That  tells  of  change  ;  and  they  are  disciplined 
By  faith  in  me,  to  such  obedience 
As  needs  no  spy.    My  scalers  and  my  scouts 
Are  to  the  Moorish  force  they  're  leagued  withal 
As  bow-string  to  the  bow  ;  while  I  their  chief 
Command  the  enterprise  and  guide  the  will 
Of  Moorish  captains,  as  the  pilot  guides 
With  eye-instructed  hand  the  passive  helm. 
For  high  device  is  still  the  highest  force, 
And  he  who  holds  the  secret  of  the  wheel 
May  make  the  rivers  do  what  work  he  would. 
With  thoughts  impalpable  we  clutch  men's  souls^ 
Weaken  the  joints  of  armies,  make  them  fly 
Like  dust  and  leaves  before  the  viewless  wind. 
Tell  me  what 's  mirrored  in  the  tiger's  heart, 
I  '11  rule  that  too. 

Fedalma  (wrought  to  a  glow  of  admiration). 

0  my  imperial  father  ! 
'T  is  where  there  breathes  a  mighty  soul  like  yours 
That  men's  contempt  is  of  good  augury. 

Zarca  (seizing  both  Fedalma's  hands,  and  looking 
at  her  searchingly). 
And  you,  my  daughter,  are  you  not  the  child 
Of  the  Zincalo  ?    Does  not  his  great  hope 
Thrill  in  your  veins  like  shouts  of  victory  ? 
'T  is  a  vile  life  that  like  a  garden  pool 
Lies  stagnant  in  the  round  of  personal  loves ) 
That  has  no  ear  save  for  the  tickling  lute 


208 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Set  to  small  measures,  —  deaf  to  all  the  beats 

Of  that  large  music  rolling  o'er  the  world : 

A  miserable,  petty,  low-roofed  life, 

That  knows  the  mighty  orbits  of  the  skies 

Through  naught  save  light  or  dark  in  its  own  cabin. 

The  very  brutes  will  feel  the  force  of  kind 

And  move  together,  gathering  a  new  soul,  — 

The  soul  of  multitudes.    Say  now,  my  child, 

You  will  not  falter,  not  look  back  and  long 

¥or  unfledged  ease  in  some  soft  alien  nest. 

The  crane  with  outspread  wing  that  heads  the  file 

Pauses  not,  feels  no  backward  impulses : 

Behind  it  summer  was,  and  is  no  more  ; 

Before  it  lies  the  summer  it  will  reach 

Or  fall  in  the  mid-ocean.    And  you  no  less 

Must  feel  the  force  sublime  of  growing  life. 

New  thoughts  are  urgent  as  the  growth  of  wings  ; 

The  widening  vision  is  imperious 

As  higher  members  bursting  the  worm's  sheath. 

You  cannot  grovel  in  the  worm's  delights : 

You  must  take  winged  pleasures,  winged  pains. 

Are  you  not  steadfast  ?    Will  you  live  or  die 

Por  aught  below  your  royal  heritage  ? 

To  him  who  holds  the  flickering  brief  torch 

That  lights  a  beacon  for  the  perishing, 

Aught  else  is  crime.    Are  you  a  false  Zincala  ? 

Fed  ALMA. 

Father,  my  soul  is  weak,  the  mist  of  tears 

Still  rises  to  my  eyes,  and  hides  the  goal 

Which  to  your  undimmed  sight  is  clear  and  changeless. 

But  if  I  cannot  plant  resolve  on  hope 

It  will  stand  firm  on  certainty  of  woe. 

I  choose  the  ill  that  is  most  like  to  end 

With  my  poor  being.    Plopes  have  precarious  life. 


THE  SPAmSH  GYPSY. 


209 


They  are  oft  blighted,  withered,  snapped  sheer  off 
In  vigorous  growth  and  turned  to  rottenness. 
But  faithfulness  can  feed  on  suffering, 
And  knows  no  disappointment.    Trust  in  me  ! 
If  it  were  needed,  this  poor  trembling  hand 
Should  grasp  the  torch,  —  strive  not  to  let  it  fall 
Though  it  were  burning  down  close  to  my  flesh, 
No  beacon  lighted  yet :  through  the  damp  dark 
I  should  still  hear  the  cry  of  gasping  swimmers. 
Father,  I  will  be  true  ! 

Zarca. 

I  trust  that  word. 
And,  for  your  sadness,  —  you  are  young,  —  the  bruise 
Will  leave  no  mark.    The  worst  of  misery 
Is  when  a  nature  framed  for  noblest  things 
Condemns  itself  in  youth  to  petty  joys, 
And,  sore  athirst  for  air,  breathes  scanty  life 
Gasping  from  out  the  shallows.    You  are  saved 
From  such  poor  doubleness.    The  life  we  choose 
Breathes  high,  and  sees  a  full-arched  firmament. 
Our  deeds  shall  speak  like  rock-hewn  messages, 
Teaching  great  purpose  to  the  distant  time. 
Kow  I  must  hasten  back.    I  shall  but  speak 
To  Nadar  of  the  order  he  must  keep 
In  setting  watch  and  victualling.    The  stars 
And  the  young  moon  must  see  me  at  my  post. 
Nay,  rest  you  here.    Farewell,  my  younger  self,  — 
Strong-hearted  daughter  !    Shall  I  live  in  you 
When  the  earth  covers  me  ? 

Fedalma. 

My  father,  death 
Should  give  your  will  divineness,  make  it  strong 
With  the  beseechings  of  a  mighty  soul 
14 


210  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  left  its  work  unfinished.    Kiss  me  now : 

{They  embrace,  and  she  adds  tremulously  as  they  part,) 
And  when  you  see  fair  hair  be  pitiful.  (Exit  Zarca.) 
(Fed ALMA  seats  herself  on  the  hank,  leans  her  head 
forward,  and  covers  her  face  with  her  drapery. 
While  she  is  seated  thus,  Hinda  comes  from  the 
hank,  with  a  branch  of  musk  roses  in  her  hand. 
Seeing  Fedalma  with  head  bent  and  covered, 
she  pauses,  and  begins  to  move  on  tiptoe.) 

Hind  A. 

Our  Queen  !    Can  she  be  crying  ?    There  she  sits 
As  I  did  every  day  when  my  dog  Saad 
Sickened  and  yelled,  and  seemed  to  yell  so  loud 
After  we 'd  buried  him,  I  oped  his  grave. 

{She  comes  forward  on  tiptoe,  kneels  at  Fedalma^s 
feet,  and  embraces  them,  Fedalma  uncovers  her 
head.) 

Fedalma. 

Hinda !  what  is  it  ? 

HiNDA. 

Queen,  a  branch  of  roses,  — 
So  sweet,  you  '11  love  to  smell  them.    'T  was  the  last. 
I  climbed  the  bank  to  get  it  before  Tralla, 
And  slipped  and  scratched  my  arm.    But  I  don't  mind. 
You  love  the  roses,  —  so  do  I.    I  wish 
The  sky  would  rain  down  roses,  as  they  rain 
From  off  the  shaken  bush.    Why  will  it  not  ? 
Then  all  the  valley  would  be  pink  and  white 
And  soft  to  tread  on.    They  would  fall  as  light 
As  feathers,  smelling  sweet ;  and  it  would  be 
Like  sleeping  and  yet  waking,  all  at  once ! 
Over  the  sea.  Queen,  where  we  soon  shall  go, 
Will  it  rain  roses  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


211 


Fedalma. 
No,  my  prattler,  no ! 
It  never  will  rain  roses  :  when  we  want 
To  have  more  roses  we  must  plant  more  trees. 
But  you  want  nothing,  little  one,  —  the  world 
Just  suits  you  as  it  suits  the  tawny  squirrels. 
Come,  you  want  nothing. 

Hind  A. 

Yes,  I  want  more  berries,  — 
Red  ones,  —  to  wind  about  my  neck  and  arms 
When  I  am  married,  —  on  my  ankles  too 
I  want  to  wind  red  berries,  and  on  my  head. 

Fedalma. 

Who  is  it  you  are  fond  of  ?    Tell  me,  now. 

HiNDA. 

0  Queen,  you  know  !    It  could  be  no  one  else 
But  Ismael.    He  catches  birds,  —  no  end  ! 
Knows  where  the  speckled  fish  are,  scales  the  rocks, 
And  sings  and  dances  with  me  when  I  like. 
How  should  I  marry  and  not  marry  him  ? 

Fedalma. 

Should  you  have  loved  him,  had  he  been  a  Moor, 
Or  white  Castilian  ? 

HiNDA  (starting  to  her  feet,  then  hneeling  again). 
Are  you  angry.  Queen  ? 
Say  why  you  will  think  shame  of  your  poor  Hinda  ? 
She 'd  sooner  be  a  rat  and  hang  on  thorns 
To  parch  until  the  wind  had  scattered  her, 
Than  be  an  outcast,  spit  at  by  her  tribe. 

Fedalma. 
Hinda,  I  know  you  are  a  good  Zincala. 
But  would  you  part  from  Ismael  ?  leave  him  now 


212  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


If  your  chief  bade  you,  —  said  it  was  for  good 
To  all  your  tribe  that  you  must  part  from  him  ? 

Hind  A  {giving  a  sharp  cry). 
Ah,  will  he  say  so  ? 

Fed  ALMA  (almost  fierce  in  her  earnestness), 
ISTay,  child,  answer  me. 
Could  you  leave  Ismael  ?  get  into  a  boat 
And  see  the  waters  widen  ^twixt  you  two 
Till  all  was  water  and  you  saw  him  not, 
And  knew  that  you  would  never  see  him  more  ? 
If 't  was  your  chief's  command,  and  if  he  said 
Your  tribe  would  all  be  slaughtered,  die  of  plague, 
Of  famine,  —  madly  drink  each  other's  blood  .... 

Hind  A  {trembling), 

0  Queen,  if  it  is  so,  tell  Ismael. 

Fed  ALMA. 

You  would  obey,  then  ?  part  from  him  forever  ? 
Hind  A. 

How  could  we  live  else  ?    With  our  brethren  lost  ?  — 
1^0  marriage  feast  ?    The  day  would  turn  to  dark. 
Zincali  cannot  live  without  their  tribe. 

1  must  obey  !    Poor  Ismael  —  poor  Hinda  ! 
But  will  it  ever  be  so  cold  and  dark  ? 

Oh,  I  would  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  cry, 
And  cry  so  long  that  I  could  cry  no  more  : 
Then  I  should  go  to  sleep. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Ko,  Hinda,  no ! 
Thou  never  shalt  be  called  to  part  from  him. 
I  will  have  berries  for  thee,  red  and  black, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


213 


And  I  will  be  so  glad  to  see  thee  glad, 
That  earth  will  seem  to  hold  enough  of  joy 
To  outweigh  all  the  pangs  of  those  who  part. 
Be  comforted,  bright  eyes.    See,  I  will  tie 
These  roses  in  a  crown,  for  thee  to  wear. 

Hind  A  (clapping  her  hands^  while  Fed  alma  the 
roses  on  her  head). 
Oh,  I 'm  as  glad  as  many  little  foxes,  — 
I  will  JBnd  Ismael,  and  tell  him  all.     {She  runs  off.) 

Fed  ALMA  (alone). 

She  has  the  strength  I  lack.    Within  her  world 

The  dial  has  not  stirred  since  first  she  woke : 

No  changing  light  has  made  the  shadows  die, 

And  taught  her  trusting  soul  sad  difference. 

For  her,  good,  right,  and  law  are  all  summed  up 

In  what  is  possible  ;  life  is  one  Aveb 

Where  love,  joy,  kindred,  and  obedience 

Lie  fast  and  even,  in  one  warp  and  woof 

With  thirst  and  drinking,  hunger,  food,  and  sleep. 

She  knows  no  struggles,  sees  no  double  path : 

Her  fate  is  freedom,  for  her  will  is  one 

With  the  Zincalo's  law,  the  only  law 

She  ever  knew.    For  me  —  oh,  I  have  fire  within, 

But  on  my  will  there  falls  the  chilling  snow 

Of  thoughts  that  come  as  subtly  as  soft  flakes, 

Yet  press  at  last  with  hard  and  icy  weight. 

I  could  be  firm,  could  give  myself  the  wrench 

And  walk  erect,  hiding  my  life-long  wound, 

If  I  but  saw  the  fruit  of  all  my  pain 

With  that  strong  vision  which  commands  the  soul, 

And  makes  great  awe  the  monarch  of  desire. 

But  now  I  totter,  seeing  no  far  goal : 

I  tread  the  rocky  pass,  and  pause  and  grasp, 


214  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Guided  by  flashes.    When  my  father  comes, 

And  breathes  into  my  soul  his  generous  hope,  — 

By  his  own  greatness  making  life  seem  great, 

As  the  clear  heavens  bring  sublimity, 

And  show  earth  larger,  spanned  by  that  blue  vast,  — 

Eesolve  is  strong  :  I  can  embrace  my  sorrow, 

Nor  nicely  weigh  the  fruit ;  possessed  with  need 

Solely  to  do  the  noblest,  though  it  failed,  — 

Though  lava  streamed  upon  my  breathing  deed 

And  buried  it  in  night  and  barrenness. 

But  soon  the  glow  dies  out,  the  warrior's  music 

That  vibrated  as  strength  through  all  my  limbs 

Is  heard  no  longer ;  over  the  wide  scene 

There 's  naught  but  chill  gray  silence,  or  the  hum 

And  fitful  discord  of  a  vulgar  world. 

Then  I  sink  helpless,  —  sink  into  the  arms 

Of  all  sweet  memories,  and  dream  of  bliss  : 

See  looks  that  penetrate  like  tones ;  hear  tones 

That  flash  looks  with  them.    Even  now  I  feel 

Soft  airs  enwrap  me,  as  if  yearning  rays 

Of  some  far  presence  touched  me  with  their  warmth 

And  brought  a  tender  murmuring  

[While  she  mused, 

A  figure  came  from  out  the  olive-trees 

That  bent  close-whispering  'twixt  the  parted  hills 

Beyond  the  crescent  of  thick  cactus  :  paused 

At  sight  of  her ;  then  slowly  forward  moved 

With  careful  step,  and  gently  said,    Fedalma  ! " 

Fearing  lest  fancy  had  enslaved  her  sense. 

She  quivered,  rose,  but  turned  not.    Soon  again : 

"  Fedalma,  it  is  Silva  ! Then  she  turned. 

He,  with  bared  head  and  arms  entreating,  beamed 

Like  morning  on  her.    Vision  held  her  still 

One  moment,  then  with  gliding  motion  swift, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


215 


Inevitable  as  the  melting  stream's, 

She  found  her  rest  within  his  circling  arms.] 

Fed  ALMA. 

0  love,  you  are  living,  and  believe  in  me ! 

Don  Silva. 
Once  more  we  are  together.    Wishing  dies,  — 
Stifled  with  bliss. 

Fedalma, 
You  did  not  hate  me,  then,  — 
Think  me  an  ingrate,  — think  my  love  was  small 
That  I  forsook  you  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Dear,  I  trusted  you 
As  holy  men  trust  God.    You  could  do  naught 
That  was  not  pure  and  loving,  —  though  the  deed 
Might  pierce  me  unto  death.    You  had  less  trust. 
Since  you  suspected  mine.    T  was  wicked  doubt. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  when  I  saw  you  hating  me  the  fault 
Seemed  in  my  lot,  —  the  poor  Zincala's,  —  her 
On  whom  you  lavished  all  your  wealth  of  love 
As  price  of  naught  but  sorrow.    Then  I  said, 
"  'T  is  better  so.    He  will  be  happier  !  " 
But  soon  that  thought,  struggling  to  be  a  hope, 
Would  end  in  tears. 

Don  Silva. 

It  was  a  cruel  thought. 
Happier !    True  misery  is  not  begun 
Until  I  cease  to  love  thee. 


Fedalma. 

SHval 


216  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

Mine  ! 

{They  stand  a  moment  or  two  in  silence?) 
Fed  ALMA. 

I  thought  I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  love,  — 
Long  eloquent  stories,  —  how  it  all  befell,  — 
The  solemn  message,  calling  me  away 
To  awful  spousals,  where  my  own  dead  joy, 
A  conscious  ghost,  looked  on  and  saw  me  wed. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh  that  grave  speech  would  cumber  our  quick  souls 
Like  bells  that  waste  the  moments  with  their  loudness. 

Feb  ALMA. 

And  if  it  all  were  said,  ^t  would  end  in  this, 
That  I  still  loved  you  when  I  fled  away. 
'T  is  no  more  wisdom  than  the  little  birds 
Make  known  by  their  soft  twitter  when  they  feel 
Each  other's  heart  beat. 

Don  Silva. 

All  the  deepest  things 
We  now  say  with  our  eyes  and  meeting  pulse : 
Our  voices  need  but  prattle. 

Fed  ALMA. 

I  forget 

All  the  drear  days  of  thirst  in  this  one  draught. 

{Again  they  are  silent  for  a  few  moments^ 
But  tell  me  how  you  came  ?    Where  are  your  guards  ? 
Is  there  no  risk  ?    And  now  I  look  at  you, 
This  garb  is  strange  .... 

Don  Silva. 

I  came  alone. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


217 


Fed  ALMA. 

Alone  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  —  fled  in  secret.    There  was  no  way  else 
To  find  you  safely. 

Fed  ALMA  (letting  one  hand  fall  and  moving  a  little 
from  him  with  a  look  of  sudden  terror,  while  he 
clasps  her  more  firmly  by  the  other  arm), 

Silva ! 


Don  Silva. 

It  is  naught. 
Enough  that  I  am  here.    Now  we  will  cling. 
What  power  shall  hinder  us  ?    You  left  me  once 
To  set  your  father  free.    That  task  is  done, 
And  you  are  mine  again.    I  have  braved  all 
That  I  might  find  you,  see  your  father,  win 
His  furtherance  in  bearing  you  away 
To  some  safe  refuge.    Are  we  not  betrothed  ? 

Fedalma. 

Oh  I  am  trembling  ^neath  the  rush  of  thoughts 
That  come  like  griefs  at  morning,  —  look  at  me 
With  awful  faces,  from  the  vanishing  haze 
That  momently  had  hidden  them. 

Don  Silva. 

What  thoughts  ? 

Fedalma. 

Forgotten  burials.    There  lies  a  grave 
Between  this  visionary  present  and  the  past. 
Our  joy  is  dead,  and  only  smiles  on  us 
A  loving  shade  from  out  the  place  of  tombs. 


218  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silya. 

Fedalma,  your  love  faints,  else  aught  that  parts  us 
Would  seem  but  superstition.    Love  supreme 
Defies  all  sophistry,  —  risks  avenging  fires. 
I  have  risked  all  things.    But  your  love  is  faint. 

Fedalma  {i^etreating  a  little^  hut  keeping  his  hand), 
Silva,  if  now  between  us  came  a  sword, 
Severed  my  arm,  and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, 
This  poor  maimed  arm  would  feel  the  clasp  till  death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword  .... 

(Zarca  has  been  advancing  in  the  background. 
He  has  drawn  his  sword,  and  now  thrusts  the 
naked  blade  betiveen  them.  Silva  lets  go 
Fedalma's  hand,  and  grasps  his  sword.  Fe- 
dalma, startled  at  first,  stands  firmly,  as  if 
prepared  to  interpose  between  her  father  and 
the  Duke.) 

Zarca. 

Ay,  't  is  a  sword 
That  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the  true  Zincala : 
A  sword  that  was  baptized  in  Christian  blood, 
When  once  a  band,  cloaking  with  Spanish  law 
Their  brutal  rapine,  would  have  butchered  us, 
And  then  outraged  our  women. 

{Resting  the  point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground,) 

My  lord  Duke, 
I  was  a  guest  within  your  fortress  once 
Against  my  will ;  had  entertainment  too,  — 
Much  like  a  galley  slave's.    Pray,  have  you  sought 
The  poor  Zincalo's  camp,  to  find  return 
For  that  Castilian  courtesy  ?  or  rather 
To  make  amends  for  all  our  prisoned  toil 
By  this  great  honor  of  your  unasked  presence  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


219 


Don  Silva. 

Chief,  I  have  brought  no  scorn  to  meet  your  scorn. 
I  came  because  love  urged  me,  —  that  deep  love 
I  bear  to  her  whom  you  call  daughter,  —  her 
Whom  I  reclaim  as  my  betrothed  bride, 

Zakca. 

Doubtless  you  bring  for  final  argument 

Your  men-at-arms  who  will  escort  your  bride  ? 

Don  Silva. 

I  came  alone.    The  only  force  I  bring 
Is  tenderness.    Nay,  I  will  trust  besides 
In  all  the  pleadings  of  a  father's  care 
To  wed  his  daughter  as  her  nurture  bids. 
And  for  your  tribe,  —  whatever  purposed  good 
Your  thoughts  may  cherish,  I  will  make  secure 
With  the  strong  surety  of  a  noble^s  power  : 
My  wealth  shall  be  your  treasury. 

Zarca  (if^ith  irony). 

My  thanks  ! 
To  me  you  offer  liberal  price  ;  for  her 
Your  love's  beseeching  will  be  force  supreme. 
She  will  go  with  you  as  a  willing  slave. 
Will  give  a  word  of  parting  to  her  father. 
Wave  farewells  to  her  tribe,  then  turn  and  say : 
"  Now,  my  lord,  I  am  nothing  but  your  bride  ; 
I  am  quite  culled,  have  neither  root  nor  trunk, 
Now  wear  me  with  your  plume  ! '' 

Don  Silva. 

Yours  is  the  wrong 
Feigning  in  me  one  thought  of  her  below 
The  highest  homage.    I  would  make  my  rank 


220  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  pedestal  of  her  worth  ;  a  noble's  sword, 
A  noble's  honor,  her  defence ;  his  love 
The  life-long  sanctuary  of  her  womanhood, 

Zarca. 

I  tell  yon,  were  you  King  of  Aragon, 

And  won  my  daughter's  hand,  your  higher  rank 

Would  blacken  her  dishonor.    'T  were  excuse 

If  you  were  beggared,  homeless,  spit  upon. 

And  so  made  even  with  her  people's  lot ; 

For  then  she  would  be  lured  by  want,  not  wealth, 

To  be  a  wife  amongst  an  alien  race 

To  whom  her  tribe  owes  curses. 

Don  Silva. 

Such  blind  hate 
Is  fit  for  beasts  of  prey,  but  not  for  men. 
My  hostile  acts  against  you  should  but  count 
As  ignorant  strokes  against  a  friend  unknown ; 
And  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  your  tribe 
By  Spanish  edicts  or  the  cruelty 
Of  Spanish  vassals,  am  I  criminal  ? 
Love  comes  to  cancel  all  ancestral  hate. 
Subdues  all  heritage,  proves  that  in  mankind 
Union  is  deeper  than  division. 

Zarca. 

Ay, 

Such  love  is  common :  I  have  seen  it  oft,  — 
Seen  many  women  rend  the  sacred  ties 
That  bind  them  in  high  fellowship  with  men, 
Making  them  mothers  of  a  people's  virtue ; 
Seen  them  so  levelled  to  a  handsome  steed 
That  yesterday  was  Moorish  property. 
To-day  is  Christian,  —  wears  new-fashioned  gear, 


THE  SPAISriSH  GYPSY. 


221 


Neighs  to  new  feeders,  and  will  prance  alike 

Under  all  banners,  so  tlie  banner  be 

A  master's  who  caresses.    Such  light  change 

You  call  conversion ;  we  Zincali  call 

Conversion  infamy.    Our  people's  faith 

Is  faithfulness  ;  not  the  rote-learned  belief 

That  we  are  heaven's  highest  favorites, 

But  the  resolve  that,  being  most  forsaken 

Among  the  sons  of  men,  we  will  be  true 

Each  to  the  other,  and  our  common  lot. 

You  Christians  burn  men  for  their  heresy  : 

Our  vilest  heretic  is  that  Zincala 

Who,  choosing  ease,  forsakes  her  people's  woes. 

The  dowry  of  my  daughter  is  to  be 

Chief  woman  of  her  tribe,  and  rescue  it. 

A  bride  with  such  a  dowry  has  no  match 

Among  the  subjects  of  that  Catholic  Queen 

Who  would  have  Gypsies  swept  into  the  sea 

Or  else  would  have  them  gibbeted. 

Don  Silva. 

And  you, 

Fedalma's  father,  —  you  who  claim  the  dues 

Of  fatherhood,  —  will  offer  up  her  youth 

To  mere  grim  idols  of  your  fantasy  ! 

Worse  than  all  Pagans,  with  no  oracle 

To  bid  you  murder,  no  sure  good  to  win, 

Will  sacrifice  your  daughter,  —  to  no  god, 

But  to  a  hungry  fire  within  your  soul, 

Mad  hopes,  blind  hate,  that  like  possessing  fiends 

Shriek  at  a  name !    This  sweetest  virgin,  reared 

As  garden  flowers,  to  give  the  sordid  world 

Glimpses  of  perfectness,  you  snatch  and  thrust 

On  dreary  wilds  ;  in  visions  mad,  proclaim 

Semiramis  of  Gypsy  wanderers  ; 


222 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Doonij  with  a  broken  arrow  in  her  heart, 
To  wait  for  death  ^mid  squalid  savages  : 
For  what  ?    You  would  be  savior  of  your  tribe ; 
So  said  Fedalma's  letter  ;  rather  say, 
You  have  the  will  to  save  by  ruling  men, 
But  first  to  rule ;  and  with  that  flinty  will 
You  cut  your  way,  though  the  first  cut  you  give 
Gash  your  child's  bosom. 

(While  SiLVA  has  been  speaking,  with  growing 
passion,  Fed  alma  has  placed  herself  between 
him  and  her  father.) 

Zarca  {with  calm  irony). 

You  are  loud,  my  lord  ! 
You  only  are  the  reasonable  man  ; 
You  have  a  heart,  I  none.    Fedalma's  good 
Is  what  you  see,  you  care  for ;  while  I  seek 
No  good,  not  even  my  own,  urged  on  by  naught 
But  hellish  hunger,  which  must  still  be  fed 
Though  in  the  feeding  it  I  suffer  throes. 
Fume  at  your  own  opinion  as  you  will : 
I  speak  not  now  to  you,  but  to  my  daughter. 
If  she  still  calls  it.  good  to  mate  with  you, 
To  be  a  Spanish  duchess,  kneel  at  court, 
And  hope  her  beauty  is  excuse  to  men 
When  women  whisper,  "  She  was  a  Zincala ; 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  take  a  lot 
That  measures  joy  for  her  as  she  forgets 
Her  kindred  and  her  kindred's  misery, 
Nor  feels  the  softness  of  her  downy  couch 
Marred  by  remembrance  that  she  once  forsook 
The  place  that  she  was  born  to,  —  let  her  go  ! 
If  life  for  her  still  lies  in  alien  love. 
That  forces  her  to  shut  her  soul  from  truth 
As  men  in  shameful  pleasures  shut  out  day ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


223 


And  death,  for  her,  is  to  do  rarest  deeds, 

Which,  even  failing,  leave  new  faith  to  men. 

The  faith  in  human  hearts,  —  then,  let  her  go ! 

She  is  my  only  offspring ;  in  her  veins 

She  bears  the  blood  her  tribe  has  trusted  in ; 

Her  heritage  is  their  obedience. 

And  if  I  died,  she  might  still  lead  them  forth 

To  plant  the  race  her  lover  now  reviles 

Where  they  may  make  a  nation,  and  may  rise 

To  grander  manhood  than  his  race  can  show ; 

Then  live  a  goddess,  sanctifying  oaths. 

Enforcing  right,  and  ruling  consciences. 

By  law  deep-graven  in  exalting  deeds. 

Through  the  long  ages  of  her  people's  life. 

If  she  can  leave  that  lot  for  silken  shame, 

For  kisses  honeyed  by  oblivion,  — 

The  bliss  of  drunkards  or  the  blank  of  fools,  — 

Then  let  her  go  !    You  Spanish  Catholics, 

When  you  are  cruel,  base,  and  treacherous, 

For  ends  not  pious,  tender  gifts  to  God, 

And  for  men's  wounds  offer  much  oil  to  churches : 

We  have  no  altars  for  such  healing  gifts 

As  soothe  the  heavens  for  outrage  done  on  earth. 

We  have  no  priesthood  and  no  creed  to  teach 

That  the  Zincala  who  might  save  her  race 

And  yet  abandons  it,  may  cleanse  that  blot. 

And  mend  the  curse  her  life  has  been  to  men, 

By  saving  her  own  soul.    Her  one  base  choice 

Is  wrong  unchangeable,  is  poison  shed 

Where  men  must  drink,  shed  by  her  poisoning  will. 

Now  choose,  Fedalma ! 

[But  her  choice  was  made. 
Slowly,  while  yet  her  father  spoke,  she  moved 
From  where  oblique  with  deprecating  arms 


224 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


She  stood  between  the  two  who  swayed  her  heart : 

Slowly  she  moved  to  choose  sublimer  pain ; 

Yearning,  yet  shrinking  ;  wrought  upon  by  awe, 

Her  own  brief  life  seeming  a  little  isle 

Eemote  through  visions  of  a  wider  world 

With  fates  close-crowded ;  firm  to  slay  her  joy 

That  cut  her  heart  with  smiles  beneath  the  knife, 

Like  a  sweet  babe  foredoomed  by  prophecy. 

She  stood  apart,  yet  near  her  father :  stood 

Hand  clutching  hand,  her  limbs  all  tense  with  will 

That  strove  against  her  anguish,  eyes  that  seemed  a  soul 

Yearning  in  death  towards  him  she  loved  and  left. 

He  faced  her,  pale  with  passion  and  a  will 

Fierce  to  resist  whatever  might  seem  strong 

And  ask  him  to  submit :  he  saw  one  end,  — 

He  must  be  conqueror  ;  monarch  of  his  lot 

And  not  its  tributary.    But  she  spoke 

Tenderly,  pleadingly.] 

Fed  ALMA. 
My  lord,  farewell ! 
T  was  well  we  met  once  more  ;  now  we  must  part. 
I  think  we  had  the  chief  of  all  love's  joys 
Only  in  knowing  that  we  loved  each  other, 

Don  Silva. 

I  thought  we  loved  with  love  that  clings  till  death. 
Clings  as  brute  mothers  bleeding  to  their  young, 
Still  sheltering,  clutching  it,  though  it  were  dead ; 
Taking  the  death-wound  sooner  than  divide. 
I  thought  we  loved  so. 

Fedalma. 

Silva,  it  is  fate. 
Great  Fate  has  made  me  heiress  of  this  woe. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


225 


You  must  forgive  Fedalma  all  her  debt : 
She  is  quite  beggared :  if  she  gave  herself, 

would  be  a  self  corrupt  with  stifled  thoughts 
Of  a  forsaken  better.    It  is  truth 
My  father  speaks  :  the  Spanish  noble's  wife 
Would  be  a  false  Zincala.    I  will  bear 
The  heavy  trust  of  my  inheritance. 
See,  't  was  my  people's  life  that  throbbed  in  me  ; 
An  unknown  need  stirred  darkly  in  my  soul, 
And  made  me  restless  even  in  my  bliss. 
Oh,  all  my  bliss  was  in  our  love  ;  but  now 
I  may  not  taste  it :  some  deep  energy 
Compels  me  to  choose  hunger.    Dear,  farewell ! 
I  must  go  with  my  people. 

[She  stretched  forth 
Her  tender  hands,  that  oft  had  lain  in  his. 
The  hands  he  knew  so  well,  that  sight  of  them 
Seemed  like  their  touch.    But  he  stood  still  as  death ; 
Locked  motionless  by  forces  opposite  : 
His  frustrate  hopes  still  battled  with  despair ; 
His  will  was  prisoner  to  the  double  grasp 
Of  rage  and  hesitancy.    All  the  travelled  way 
Behind  him,  he  had  trodden  confident, 
Euling  munificently  in  his  thought 
This  Gypsy  father.    Now  the  father  stood 
Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 
As  a  celestial  portent.    Backward  lay 
The  traversed  road,  the  town's  forsaken  wall, 
The  risk,  the  daring ;  all  around  him  now 
Was  obstacle,  save  where  the  rising  flood 
Of  love  close  pressed  by  anguish  of  denial 
Was  sweeping  him  resistless ;  save  where  she 
Gazing  stretched  forth  her  tender  hands,  that  hurt 
Like  parting  kisses.    Then  at  last  he  spoke.] 
15 


226  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

No,  I  can  never  take  those  hands  in  mine, 
Then  let  them  go  forever  ! 

Fedalma. 

It  must  be. 

We  may  not  make  this  world  a  paradise 

By  walking  it  together  hand  in  hand, 

With  eyes  that  meeting  feed  a  double  strength. 

We  must  be  only  joined  by  pains  divine 

Of  spirits  blent  in  mutual  memories. 

Silva,  our  joy  is  dead. 

Don  Silva. 

But  love  still  lives, 
And  has  a  safer  guard  in  wretchedness. 
Fedalma,  women  know  no  perfect  love  : 
Loving  the  strong,  they  can  forsake  the  strong ; 
Man  clings  because  the  being  whom  he  loves 
Is  weak  and  needs  him.    I  can  never  turn 
And  leave  you  to  your  difficult  wandering ; 
Know  that  you  tread  the  desert,  bear  the  storm, 
Shed  tears,  see  terrors,  faint  with  weariness. 
Yet  live  away  from  you.    I  should  feel  naught 
But  your  imagined  pains  :  in  my  own  steps 
See  your  feet  bleeding,  taste  your  silent  tears. 
And  feel  no  presence  but  your  loneliness. 
No,  I  will  never  leave  you ! 

Zarca. 

My  lord  Duke, 
I  have  been  patient,  given  room  for  speech, 
Bent  not  to  move  my  daughter  by  command. 
Save  that  of  her  own  faithfulness.    But  now. 
All  further  words  are  idle  elegies 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


227 


Unfitting  times  of  action.    You  are  here 

With  the  safe  conduct  of  that  trust  you  showed 

Coming  alone  to  the  Zincalo's  camp. 

I  would  fain  meet  all  trust  with  courtesy 

As  well  as  honor ;  but  my  utmost  power 

Is  to  afford  you  Gypsy  guard  to-night 

Within  the  tents  that  keep  the  northward  lines, 

And  for  the  morrow,  escort  on  your  way 

Back  to  the  Moorish  bounds. 

Don  Silva. 

What  if  my  words 
Were  meant  for  deeds,  decisive  as  a  leap 
Into  the  current  ?    It  is  not  my  wont 
To  utter  hollow  words,  and  speak  resolves 
Like  verses  banded  in  a  madrigal. 
I  spoke  in  action  first :  I  faced  all  risks 
To  find  Fedalma.    Action  speaks  again 
When  I,  a  Spanish  noble,  here  declare 
That  I  abide  with  her,  adopt  her  lot. 
Claiming  alone  fulfilment  of  her  vows 
As  my  betrothed  wife. 

Fedalma  (wresting  herself  from  him,  and  standing 
opposite  with  a  look  of  terror), 
Nay,  Silva,  nay ! 
You  could  not  live  so ;  spring  from  your  high  place  .  .  . . 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  I  have  said  it.    And  you,  chief,  are  bound 
By  her  strict  vows,  no  stronger  fealty 
Being  left  to  cancel  them. 

Zarca. 

Strong  words,  my  lord  ! 
Sounds  fatal  as  the  hammer-strokes  that  shape 


228 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  glowing  metal :  they  must  shape  your  life. 
That  you  will  claim  my  daughter  is  to  say 
That  you  will  leave  your  Spanish  dignities, 
Your  home,  your  wealth,  your  people,  to  become 
A  true  Zincalo  ;  share  your  wanderings, 
And  be  a  match  meet  for  my  daughter's  dower 
By  living  for  her  tribe ;  take  the  deep  oath 
That  binds  you  to  us  ;  rest  within  our  camp, 
]N^evermore  hold  command  of  Spanish  men. 
And  keep  my  orders.    See,  my  lord,  you  lock 
A  many-winding  chain,  —  a  heavy  chain. 

Don  Silva. 

I  have  but  one  resolve :  let  the  rest  follow. 
What  is  my  rank  ?    To-morrow  it  will  be  filled 
By  one  who  eyes  it  like  a  carrion  bird, 
Waiting  for  death.    I  shall  be  no  more  missed 
Than  waves  are  missed  that  leaping  on  the  rock 
Eind  there  a  bed  and  rest.    Life 's  a  vast  sea 
That  does  its  mighty  errand  without  fail, 
Panting  in  unchanged  strength  though  waves  are  chang- 
ing. 

And  I  have  said  it.    She  shall  be  my  people. 
And  where  she  gives  her  life  I  will  give  mine. 
She  shall  not  live  alone,  nor  die  alone. 
I  will  elect  my  deeds,  and  be  the  liege, 
Not  of  my  birth,  but  of  that  good  alone 
I  have  discerned  and  chosen. 

Zarca.  * 

Our  poor  faith 
Allows  not  rightful  choice,  save  of  the  right 
Our  birth  has  made  for  us.    And  you,  my  lord. 
Can  still  defer  your  choice,  for  some  days'  space. 
I  march  perforce  to-night ;  you,  if  you  will, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


229 


Under  Zincalo  guard,  can  keep  the  heights 
With  silent  Time  that  slowly  opes  the  scroll 
Of  change  inevitable  ;  taking  no  oath 
Till  my  accomplished  task  leaves  me  at  large 
To  see  you  keep  your  purpose  or  renounce  it. 

Don  Silva. 
Chief,  do  I  hear  amiss,  or  does  your  speech 
King  with  a  doubleness  which  I  had  held 
Most  alien  to  you  ?    You  would  put  me  off, 
And  cloak  evasion  with  allowance  ?    No  ! 
We  will  complete  our  pledges.    I  will  take 
That  oath  which  binds  not  me  alone,  but  you. 
To  join  my  life  forever  with  Fedalma's. 

Zarca. 

I  wrangle  not,  —  time  presses.    But  the  oath 
Will  leave  you  that  same  post  upon  the  heights ; 
Pledged  to  remain  there  while  my  absence  lasts. 
You  are  agreed,  my  lord  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Agreed  to  all. 

Zarca. 

Then  I  will  give  the  summons  to  our  camp. 
We  will  adopt  you  as  a  brother  now, 
In  the  Zincalo' s  fashion.  \_Exit  Zarca. 

(Silva  takes  Fedalma's  hands.) 

Eedalma. 

0  my  lord ! 

I  think  the  earth  is  trembling :  naught  is  firm. 
Some  terror  chills  me  with  a  shadowy  grasp. 
Am  I  about  to  wake,  or  do  you  breathe 
Plere  in  this  valley  ?    Did  the  outer  air 


230 


POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Vibrate  to  fatal  words^  or  did  they  shake 
Only  my  dreaming  soul  ?    You  a  Zincalo  ? 

Do^T  SiLVA. 

Is  then  your  love  too  faint  to  raise  belief 
Up  to  that  height  ? 

Fedalma. 

Silva,  had  you  but  said 
That  you  would  die,  —  that  were  an  easy  task 
For  you  who  oft  have  fronted  death  in  war. 
But  so  to  live  for  me,  —  you,  used  to  rule,  — 
You  could  not  breathe  the  air  my  father  breathes  : 
His  presence  is  subjection.    Go,  my  lord! 
Fly,  while  there  yet  is  time.    Wait  not  to  speak. 
I  will  declare  that  I  refused  your  love,  — 
Would  keep  no  vows  to  you  .... 

Don  Silva. 

It  is  too  late. 
You  shall  not  thrust  me  back  to  seek  a  good 
Apart  from  you.    And  what  good  ?    Why,  to  face 
Your  absence,  —  all  the  want  that  drove  me  forth 
To  work  the  will  of  a  more  tyrannous  friend 
Than  any  uncowled  father.    Life  at  least 
Gives  choice  of  ills  ;  forces  me  to  defy. 
But  shall  not  force  me  to  a  weak  defiance. 
The  power  that  threatened  you,  to  master  me, 
That  scorches  like  a  cave-hid  dragon's  breath, 
Sure  of  its  victory  in  spite  of  hate, 
Is  what  I  last  will  bend  to,  —  most  defy. 
Your  father  has  a  chieftain's  ends,  befitting 
A  soldier's  eye  and  arm :  were  he  as  strong 
As  the  Moors'  prophet,  yet  the  prophet  too 
Had  younger  captains  of  illustrious  fame 
Among  the  infidels.    Let  him  command, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


2 


For  when  your  father  speaks,  I  shall  hear  you. 
Life  were  no  gain  if  you  were  lost  to  me  : 
I  would  straight  go  and  seek  the  Moorish  walls. 
Challenge  their  bravest,  and  embrace  swift  death. 
The  Glorious  Mother  and  her  pitying  Son 
Are  not  Inquisitors,  else  their  heaven  were  hell. 
Perhaps  they  hate  their  cruel  worshippers, 
And  let  them  feed  on  lies.    I  '11  rather  trust 
They  love  you  and  have  sent  me  to  defend  you. 

Fed  ALMA. 

I  made  my  creed  so,  just  to  suit  my  mood 
And  smooth  all  hardship,  till  my  father  came 
And  taught  my  soul  by  ruling  it.    Since  then 
I  cannot  weave  a  dreaming  happy  creed 
Where  our  love's  happiness  is  not  accursed. 
My  father  shook  my  soul  awake.    And  you,  — 
What  the  Zincala  may  not  quit  for  you, 
I  cannot  joy  that  you  should  quit  for  her. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  Spanish  men  are  not  a  petty  band 
Where  one  deserter  makes  a  fatal  breach. 
Men,  even  nobles,  are  more  plenteous 
Than  steeds  and  armor ;  and  my  weapons  left 
Will  find  new  hands  to  wield  them.  Arrogance 
Makes  itself  champion  of  mankind,  and  holds 
God's  purpose  maimed  for  one  hidalgo  lost. 
See  where  your  father  comes  and  brings  a  crowd 
Of  witnesses  to  hear  my  oath  of  love  ; 
The  low  red  sun  glows  on  them  like  a  fire ; 
This  seems  a  valley  in  some  strange  new  world. 
Where  we  have  found  .each  other,  my  Fedalma. 


BOOK  IV. 


"VTOW  twice  the  day  had  sunk  from  off  the  hills 

--LN   While  Silva  kept  his  watch  there,  with  the  band 

Of  strong  Zincali.    When  the  sun  was  high 

He  slept,  then,  waking,  strained  impatient  eyes 

To  catch  the  promise  of  some  moving  form 

That  might  be  Juan,  —  J uan  who  went  and  came 

To  soothe  two  hearts,  and  claimed  naught  for  his  own  : 

Friend  more  divine  than  all  divinities, 

Quenching  his  human  thirst  in  others'  joy. 

All  through  the  lingering  nights  and  pale  chill  dawns 

Juan  had  hovered  near  ;  with  delicate  sense. 

As  of  some  breath  from  every  changing  mood, 

Had  spoken  or  kept  silence ;  touched  his  lute 

To  hint  of  melody,  or  poured  brief  strains 

That  seemed  to  make  all  sorrows  natural. 

Hardly  worth  weeping  for,  since  life  was  short, 

And  shared  by  loving  souls.    Such  pity  welled 

Within  the  minstrel's  heart  of  light-tongued  Juan 

For  this  doomed  man,  who  with  dream-shrouded  eyes 

Had  stepped  into  a  torrent  as  a  brook. 

Thinking  to  ford  it  and  return  at  will, 

And  now  waked  helpless  in  the  eddying  flood, 

Hemmed  by  its  raging  hurry.    Once  that  thought, 

How  easy  wandering  is,  how  hard  and  strict 

The  homeward  way,  had  slipped  from  reverie 

Into  low-murmured  song ;  —  (brief  Spanish  song 

'Scaped  him  as  sighs  escape  from  other  men.) 


234  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Push  off  the  boat, 
Quit,  quit  the  shore. 

The  stars  will  guide  us  back  :  — 
0  gathering  cloud, 
0  wide,  wide  sea, 

0  waves  that  keep  no  track  ! 

On  through  the  pines  ! 
The  pillared  woods. 

Where  silence  breathes  sweet  breath :  — 
0  labyrinth, 

0  sunless  gloom. 

The  other  side  of  death  ! 

Such  plaintive  song  had  seemed  to  please  the  Duke^  — • 

Had  seemed  to  melt  all  voices  of  reproach 

To  sympathetic  sadness ;  but  his  moods 

Had  grown  more  fitful  with  the  growing  hours, 

And  this  soft  murmur  had  the  iterant  voice 

Of  heartless  Echo,  whom  no  pain  can  move 

To  say  aught  else  than  we  have  said  to  her. 

He  spoke,  impatient :  "  Juan,  cease  thy  song. 

Our  whimpering  poesy  and  small-paced  tunes 

Have  no  more  utterance  than  the  cricket's  chirp 

For  souls  that  carry  heaven  and  hell  within." 

Then  Juan,  lightly  :  "True,  my  lord,  I  chirp 

For  lack  of  soul ;  some  hungry  poets  chirp 

For  lack  of  bread.    'T  were  wiser  to  sit  down 

And  count  the  star-seed,  till  I  fell  asleep 

With  the  cheap  wine  of  pure  stupidity." 

And  Silva,  checked  by  courtesy :  "Nay,  Juan, 

Were  speech  once  good,  thy  song  were  best  of  speech. 

I  meant,  all  life  is  but  poor  mockery  : 

Action,  place,  power,  the  visible  wide  world 

Are  tattered  masquerading  of  this  self, 


THE  SPAMSH  CxYPSY. 


235 


This  pulse  of  conscious  mystery :  all  change, 

Whether  to  high  or  low,  is  change  of  rags. 

But  for  her  love,  I  would  not  take  a  good 

Save  to  burn  out  in  battle,  in  a  flame 

Of  madness  that  would  feel  no  mangled  limbs, 

And  die  not  knowing  death,  but  passing  straight  — 

Well,  well,  to  other  flames  —  in  purgatory." 

Keen  Juan's  ear  caught  the  self-discontent 

That  vibrated  beneath  the  changing  tones 

Of  life-contemning  scorn.    Gently  he  said  : 

"  But  with  her  love,  my  lord,  the  world  deserves 

A  higher  rate  ;  were  it  but  masquerade. 

The  rags  were  surely  worth  the  wearing  ? ''    "  Yes. 

No  misery  shall  force  me  to  repent 

That  I  have  loved  her,'' 

So  with  wilful  talk, 
Fencing  the  wounded  soul  from  beating  winds 
Of  truth  that  came  unasked,  companionship 
Made  the  hours  lighter.    And  the  Gypsy  guard, 
Trusting  familiar  Juan,  were  content, 
At  friendly  hint  from  him,  to  still  their  songs 
And  busy  jargon  round  the  nightly  fires. 
Such  sounds  the  quick-conceiving  poet  knew 
Would  strike  on  Silva's  agitated  soul 
Like  mocking  repetition  of  the  oath 
That  bound  him  in  strange  clanship  with  the  tribe 
Of  human  panthers,  flame-eyed,  lithe-limbed,  fierce, 
Unrecking  of  time-woven  subtleties 
And  high  tribunals  of  a  phantom-world. 

But  the  third  day,  though  Silva  southward  gazed 
Till  all  the  shadows  slanted  towards  him,  gazed 
Till  all  the  shadows  died,  no  Juan  came. 
Now  in  his  stead  came  loneliness,  and  thought 
Inexorable,  fastening  with  firm  chain 


236 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


What  is  to  what  hath  been.    ISTow  awful  Night, 
Ancestral  mystery  of  mysteries,  came  down 
Past  all  the  generations  of  the  stars, 
And  visited  his  soul  with  touch  more  close 
Than  when  he  kept  that  younger,  briefer  watch 
Under  the  church's  roof  beside  his  arms. 
And  won  his  knighthood. 

Well,  this  solitude, 
This  company  with  the  enduring  universe. 
Whose  mighty  silence  carrying  all  the  past 
Absorbs  our  history  as  with  a  breath. 
Should  give  him  more  assurance,  make  him  strong 
In  all  contempt  of  that  poor  circumstance 
Called  human  life,  —  customs  and  bonds  and  laws 
Wherewith  men  make  a  better  or  a  worse, 
Like  children  playing  on  a  barren  mound 
Feigning  a  thing  to  strive  for  or  avoid. 
Thus  Silva  urged,  answering  his  many-voiced  self. 
Whose  hungry  needs,  like  petulant  multitudes. 
Lured  from  the  home  that  nurtured  them  to  strength, 
Made  loud  insurgence.    Thus  he  called  on  Thought, 
On  dexterous  Thought,  with  its  swift  alchemy 
To  change  all  forms,  dissolve  all  prejudice 
Of  man's  long  heritage,  and  yield  him  up 
A  crude  fused  world  to  fashion  as  he  would. 
Thought  played  him  double ;  seemed  to  wear  the  yoke 
Of  sovereign  passion  in  the  noonday  height 
Of  passion's  prevalence  ;  but  served  anon 
As  tribune  to  the  larger  soul  which  brought 
Loud-mingled  cries  from  every  human  need 
That  ages  had  instructed  into  life. 
He  could  not  grasp  Night's  black  blank  mystery 
And  wear  it  for  a  spiritual  garb 
Creed-proof :  he  shuddered  at  its  passionless  touch. 
On  solitary  souls,  the  universe 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


237 


Looks  down  inhospitable ;  the  human  heart 

Finds  nowhere  shelter  but  in  human  kind. 

He  yearned  towards  images  that  had  breath  in  them, 

That  sprang  warm  palpitant  with  memories 

From  streets  and  altars,  from  ancestral  homes, 

Banners  and  trophies  and  the  cherishing  rays 

Of  shame  and  honor  in  the  eyes  of  man. 

These  made  the  speech  articulate  of  his  soul, 

That  could  not  move  to  utterance  of  scorn 

Save  in  words  bred  by  fellowship ;  could  not  feel 

Resolve  of  hardest  constancy  to  love, 

The  firmer  for  the  sorrows  of  the  loved, 

Save  by  concurrent  energies  high-wrought 

To  sensibilities  transcending  sense 

Through  closest  citizenship,  and  long-shared  pains 

Of  far-off  laboring  ancestors.    In  vain 

He  sought  the  outlaw's  strength,  and  made  a  right 

Contemning  that  hereditary  right 

Which  held  dim  habitations  in  his  frame, 

Mysterious  haunts  of  echoes  old  and  far, 

The  voice  divine  of  human  loyalty. 

At  home,  among  his  people,  he  had  played 

In  sceptic  ease  with  saints  and  images 

And  thunders  of  the  Church  that  deadened  fell 

Through  screens  of  priests  plethoric.    Awe,  unscathed 

By  deeper  trespass,  slept  without  a  dream. 

But  for  such  trespass  as  made  outcasts,  still 

The  ancient  Furies  lived  with  faces  new 

And  lurked  with  lighter  slumber  than  of  old 

O'er  Catholic  Spain,  the  land  of  sacred  oaths 

That  might  be  broken. 

'Now  the  former  life 
Of  close-linked  fellowship,  the  life  that  made 
His  full-formed  self,  as  the  impregnant  sap 
Of  years  successive  frames  the  full-branched  tree,  — 


238 


POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Was  present  in  one  whole ;  and  that  great  trust 
His  deed  had  broken  turned  reproach  on  him 
From  faces  of  all  witnesses  who  heard 
His  uttered  pledges  ;  saw  him  hold  high  place 
Centring  reliance  ;  use  rich  privilege 
That  bound  him  like  a  victim-nourished  god 
By  tacit  covenant  to  shield  and  bless  ; 
Assume  the  Cross  and  take  his  knightly  oath 
Mature,  deliberate  :  faces  human  all, 
And  some  divine  as  well  as  human :  His 
Who  hung  supreme,  the  suffering  Man  divine 
Above  the  altar  ;  Hers,  the  Mother  pure 
Whose  glance  informed  his  masculine  tenderness 
With  deepest  reverence  ;  the  Archangel  armed, 
Trampling  man's  enemy  :  all  heroic  forms 
That  fill  the  world  of  faith  with  voices,  hearts, 
And  high  companionship,  to  Silva  now 
Made  but  one  inward  and  insistent  world 
With  faces  of  his  peers,  with  court  and  hall 
And  deference,  and  reverent  vassalage 
And  filial  pieties,  —  one  current  strong. 
The  warmly  mingled  life-blood  of  his  mind, 
Sustaining  him  even  when  he  idly  played 
With  rules,  beliefs,  charges,  and  ceremonies 
As  arbitrary  fooling.    Such  revenge 
Is  wrought  by  the  long  travail  of  mankind 
On  him  who  scorns  it,  and  would  shape  his  life 
Without  obedience. 

But  his  warrior's  pride 
Would  take  no  wounds  save  on  the  breast.    He  faced 
The  fatal  crowd  :  "  I  never  shall  repent ! 
If  I  have  sinned  my  sin  was  made  for  me 
By  men's  perverseness.    There 's  no  blameless  life 
Save  for  the  passionless,  no  sanctities 
But  have  the  selfsame  roof  and  props  with  crime, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


239 


Or  have  their  roots  close  interlaced  with  vileness. 

If  I  had  loved  her  less,  been  more  a  craven, 

I  had  kept  my  place  and  won  the  easy  praise 

Of  a  true  Spanish  noble.    But  I  loved, 

And,  loving,  dared,  —  not  Death  the  warrior 

But  Infamy  that  binds  and  strips  and  holds 

The  brand  and  lash.    I  have  dared  all  for  her. 

She  was  my  good,  —  what  other  men  call  heaven 

And  for  the  sake  of  it  bear  penances ; 

Nay,  some  of  old  were  baited,  tortured,  flayed 

To  win  their  heaven.    Heaven  was  their  good, 

She,  mine.    And  I  have  braved  for  her  all  fires 

Certain  or  threatened  ;  for  I  go  away 

Beyond  the  reach  of  expiation,  —  far  away 

From  sacramental  blessing.    Does  God  bless 

No  outlaw  ?    Shut  his  absolution  fast 

In  human  breath  ?    Is  there  no  God  for  me 

Save  Him  whose  cross  I  have  forsaken  ?  —  Well, 

I  am  forever  exiled,  —  but  with  her. 

She  is  dragged  out  into  the  wilderness ; 

I,  with  my  love,  will  be  her  providence. 

I  have  a  right  to  choose  my  good  or  ill, 

A  right  to  damn  myself !    The  ill  is  mine. 

I  never  will  repent !''.... 

Thus  Silva,  inwardly  debating,  all  his  ear 

Turned  into  audience  of  a  twofold  mind ; 

For  even  in  tumult  full-fraught  consciousness 

Had  plenteous  being  for  a  Self  aloof 

That  gazed  and  listened,  like  a  soul  in  dreams 

Weaving  the  wondrous  tale  it  marvels  at. 

But  oft  the  conflict  slackened,  oft  strong  Love 

With  tidal  energy  returning  laid 

All  other  restlessness  :  Fedalma  came 

And  with  her  visionary  presence  brought 

What  seemed  a  waking  in  the  warm  spring  morn. 


240  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


He  still  was  pacing  on  tlie  stony  earth 
Under  the  deepening  night ;  the  fresh-lit  fires 
Were  flickering  on  dark  forms  and  eyes  that  met 
His  forward  and  his  backward  tread ;  but  she, 
She  was  within  him,  making  his  whole  self 
Mere  correspondence  with  her  image  :  sense, 
In  all  its  deep  recesses  where  it  keeps 
The  mystic  stores  of  ecstasy,  was  transformed 
To  memory  that  killed  the  hour,  like  wine. 
Then  Silva  said :  "  She,  by  herself,  is  life. 
What  was  my  joy  before  I  loved  her,  —  what 
Shall  Heaven  lure  us  with,  love  being  lost  ?  ^'  — 
For  he  was  young. 

But  now  around  the  fires 
The  Gypsy  band  felt  freer ;  Juan^s  song 
Was  no  more  there,  nor  Juan's  friendly  ways 
For  links  of  amity  'twixt  their  wild  mood 
And  this  strange  brother,  this  pale  Spanish  duke, 
Who  with  their  Gypsy  badge  upon  his  breast 
Took  readier  place  within  their  alien  hearts 
As  a  marked  captive,  who  would  fain  escape. 
And  Nadar,  who  commanded  them,  had  known 
The  prison  in  Bedmar.    So  now,  in  talk 
Foreign  to  Spanish  ears,  they  said  their  minds, 
Discussed  their  chiefs  intent,  the  lot  marked  out 
For  this  new  brother.    Would  he  wed  their  queen  ? 
And  some  denied,  saying  their  queen  would  wed 
A  true  Zincalo  duke,  —  one  who  would  join 
Their  bands  in  Telemsdn.    But  others  thought 
Young  Hassan  was  to  wed  her ;  said  their  chief 
Would  never  trust  this  noble  of  Castile, 
Who  in  his  very  swearing  was  forsworn. 
And  then  one  fell  to  chanting,  in  wild  notes 
Eecurrent  like  the  moan  of  outshut  winds, 
The  adjuration  they  were  wont  to  use 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


241 


To  any  Spaniard  who  would  join  their  tribe : 
Words  of  plain  Spanish,  lately  stirred  anew 
And  ready  at  new  impulse.    Soon  the  rest, 
Drawn  to  the  stream  of  sound,  made  unison 
Higher  and  lower,  till  the  tidal  sweep 
Seemed  to  assail  the  Duke  and  close  him  round 
With  force  demonic.    AH  debate  till  now 
Had  wrestled  with  the  urgence  of  that  oath 
Already  broken ;  now  the  newer  oath 
Thrust  its  loud  presence  on  him.    He  stood  still, 
Close  baited  by  loud-barking  thoughts,  —  fierce  hounds 
Of  that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past. 

The  ZiNCALi  sing. 

Brother^  hear  and  take  the  curse, 
Curse  of  souVs  and  hodifs  throes^ 
If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes, 
Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes. 
Turn  a  false  Zincalo  ! 

May  you  he  accurst 
By  hunger  and  by  thirst. 
By  spiked  pangs, 
Starvation'' s  fangs 
Clutching  you  alone 
When  none  hut  peering  vultures  hear  your  moan. 

Curst  by  burning  hands. 

Curst  by  aching  brow. 
When  on  sea-wide  sands 
Fever  lays  you  low  y 

By  the  maddened  brain 
When  the  running  water  glistens, 
And  the  deaf  ear  listens,  listens, 

Prisoned  fire  within  the  vein, 

On  the  tongue  and  on  the  lip 
16 


POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Not  a  sip 
From  the  earth  or  skies  ; 

Hot  the  desert  lies 
Pressed  into  your  anguish, 
Narrowing  earth  and  narrowing  sky 
Into  lonely  misery. 
Lonely  may  you  languish 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Hate  the  darkness,  hate  the  light, 
Pray  and  find  no  ear. 
Feel  no  brother  near. 
Till  on  death  you  try. 
Death  who  passes  by. 
And  anew  you  groan. 
Scaring  the  vultures  all  to  leave  you  living  lone 
Curst  by  souVs  and  body^s  throes 
If  you  love  the  dark  men^s  foes. 
Cling  not  fast  to  all  the  dark  men^s  woes. 
Turn  a  false  Zincalo  ! 
Swear  to  hate  the  cruel  cross, 

The  silver  cross  I 
Glittering,  laughing  at  the  blood 

Shed  below  it  in  a  flood 
When  it  glitters  over  Moorish  porches  ; 

Laughing  at  the  scent  of  flesh 
When  it  glitters  where  the  fagot  scorches. 
Burning  life's  mysterious  mesh  : 
Blood  of  wandering  Israel, 
Blood  of  wandering  Ism,ael, 
Blood,  the  drink  of  Christian  scorn. 
Blood  of  wanderers,  sons  of  morn 
Where  the  life  of  men  began  : 
Swear  to  hate  the  cross  !  — 
Sign  of  all  the  wanderers'  foes. 
Sign  of  all  the  wanderers'  woes,  — 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


Else  its  curse  light  on  you  ! 

Else  the  curse  upon  you  light 

Of  its  sharp  red-sworded  might. 

May  it  lie  a  hlood-red  blight 

On  all  things  within  your  sight : 

On  the  white  haze  of  the  morn. 

On  the  meadows  and  the  corn, 

On  the  sun  and  on  the  moon, 

On  the  clearness  of  the  noon, 

On  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

May  it  fill  your  aching  sight,  — 

Red-cross  sword  and  sword  hlood-red,  — 

Till  it  press  upon  your  head. 

Till  it  lie  within  your  brain, 

Piercing  sharp,  a  cross  of  pain, 

Till  it  lie  upon  your  heart, 
Burning  hot,  a  cross  of  fire. 

Till  from  sense  in  every  part 
Fains  have  clustered  like  a  stinging  swarm 

In  the  crosses  form. 
And  you  see  naught  but  the  cross  of  blood, 
And  you  feel  naught  but  the  cross  of  fire  : 

Curst  by  all  the  crosses  throes 

If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes. 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes, 
Turn  a  false  Zincalo  I 

A  fierce  delight  was  in  the  Gypsies'  chant : 
They  thought  no  more  of  Silva,  only  felt 
Like  those  broad-chested  rovers  of  the  night 
Who  pour  exuberant  strength  upon  the  air. 
To  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  hellish  rhythm, 
Kevolving  in  long  curves  that  slackened  now, 
Now  hurried,  sweeping  round  again  to  slackness, 
Would  cease  no  more.    What  use  to  raise  his  voice, 


244 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Or  grasp  his  weapon  ?    He  was  powerless  now, 
With,  these  new  comrades  of  his  future,  —  he 
Who  had  been  wont  to  have  his  wishes  feared 
And  guessed  at  as  a  hidden  law  for  men. 
Even  the  passive  silence  of  the  night 
That  left  these  howlers  mastery,  even  the  moon, 
Eising  and  staring  with  a  helpless  face, 
Angered  him.    He  was  ready  now  to  fly 
At  some  loud  throat,  and  give  the  signal  so 
Eor  butchery  of  himself. 

But  suddenly 
The  sounds  that  travelled  towards  no  foreseen  close 
Were  torn  right  off  and  fringed  into  the  night ; 
Sharp  Gypsy  ears  had  caught  the  onward  strain 
Of  kindred  voices  joining  in  the  chant. 
All  started  to  their  feet  and  mustered  close, 
Auguring  long-waited  summons.    It  was  come : 
The  summons  to  set  forth  and  join  their  chief. 
Fedalma  had  been  called,  and  she  was  gone 
Under  safe  escort,  Juan  following  her  : 
The  camp  —  the  women,  children,  and  old  men  — 
Were  moving  slowly  southward  on  the  way 
To  Almeria.    Silva  learned  no  more. 
He  marched  perforce  ;  what  other  goal  was  his 
Than  where  Fedalma  was  ?    And  so  he  marched 
Through  the  dim  passes  and  o'er  rising  hills, 
Not  knowing  whither,  till  the  morning  came. 


The  Moorish  hall  in  the  castle  at  Bedmdr,  The  morning 
twilight  dimly  shows  stains  of  hlood  on  the  white  mar- 
ble floor ;  yet  there  has  been  a  careful  restoration  of 
order  among  the  sparse  objects  of  furniture.  Stretched 
on  mats  lie  three  corpses^  the  faces  bare,  the  bodies 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


245 


covered  with  mantles.  A  little  way  off^  with  rolled 
matting  for  a  pillow,  lies  Zarca,  sleeping.  His  chest 
and  arms  are  bare  ;  his  weapons,  turban,  mail-shirt, 
and  other  upper  garments  lie  on  the  floor  beside  him. 
In  the  outer  gallery  Zincali  are  pacing,  at  intervals, 
past  the  arched  openings. 

Zarca  (lialf  rising  and  resting  his  elbow  on  the  pillow 
while  he  looks  round). 

The  morning !    I  have  slept  for  full  three  hours  ; 

Slept  without  dreams,  save  of  my  daughter's  face. 

Its  sadness  waked  me.    Soon  she  will  be  here. 

Soon  must  outlive  the  worst  of  all  the  pains 

Bred  by  false  nurture  in  an  alien  home,  — 

As  if  a  lion  in  fangless  infancy 

Learned  love  of  creatures  that  with  fatal  growth 

It  scents  as  natural  prey,  and  grasps  and  tears, 

Yet  with  heart-hunger  yearns  for,  missing  them. 

She  is  a  lioness.    And  they  —  the  race 

That  robbed  me  of  her  —  reared  her  to  this  pain. 

He  will  be  crushed  and  torn.    There  was  no  help. 

But  she,  my  child,  will  bear  it.    For  strong  souls 

Live  like  fire-hearted  suns  to  spend  their  strength 

In  furthest  striving  action  ;  breathe  more  free 

In  mighty  anguish  than  in  trivial  ease. 

Her  sad  face  waked  me.    I  shall  meet  it  soon 

Waking  .... 

(^He  rises  and  stands  looking  at  the  corpses.) 
As  now  I  look  on  these  pale  dead. 
These  blossoming  branches  crushed  beneath  the  fall 
Of  that  broad  trunk  to  which  I  laid  my  axe 
With  fullest  foresight.    So  will  I  ever  face 
In  thought  beforehand  to  its  utmost  reach 
The  consequences  of  my  conscious  deeds ; 
So  face  them  after,  bring  them  to  my  bed. 


246  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  never  drug  my  soul  to  sleep  with.  lies. 

If  they  are  cruel,  they  shall  be  arraigned 

By  that  true  name ;  they  shall  be  justified 

By  my  high  purpose,  by  the  clear-seen  good 

That  grew  into  my  vision  as  I  grew, 

And  makes  my  nature's  function,  the  full  pulse 

Of  my  Zincalo  soul.    The  Catholics, 

Arabs,  and  Hebrews  have  their  god  apiece 

To  fight  and  conquer  for  them,  or  be  bruised 

Like  Allah,  and  yet  keep  avenging  stores 

Of  patient  wrath.    Zincali  have  no  god 

Who  speaks  to  them  and  calls  them  his,  unless 

I  Zarca  carry  living  in  my  frame 

The  power  divine  that  chooses  them  and  saves. 

Life  and  more  life  unto  the  chosen,  death 

To  all  things  living  ^that  would  stifle  them  ! 

So  speaks  each  god  that  makes  a  nation  strong ; 

Burns  trees  and  brutes  and  slays  all  hindering  men. 

The  Spaniards  boast  their  god  the  strongest  now ; 

They  win  most  towns  by  treachery,  make  most  slaves, 

Burn  the  most  vines  and  men,  and  rob  the  most. 

I  fight  against  that  strength,  and  in  my  turn 

Slay  these  brave  young  who  duteously  strove. 

Cruel  ?  ay,  it  is  cruel.    But,  how  else  ? 

To  save,  we  kill ;  each  blow  we  strike  at  guilt 

Hurts  innocence  with  its  shock.   Men  might  well  seek 

For  purifying  rites  ;  even  pious  deeds 

Need  washing.    But  my  cleansing  waters  flow 

Solely  from  my  intent. 

(He  turns  away  from  the  bodies  to  where  his  gar- 
ments lie,  hut  does  not  lift  them.) 

And  she  must  suffer ! 
But  she  has  looked  on  the  unchangeable  and  bowed 
Her  head  beneath  the  yoke.    And  she  will  walk 
No  more  in  chilling  twilight,  for  to-day 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


247 


Eises  our  sun.    The  difficult  night  is  past ; 

We  keep  the  bridge  no  more,  but  cross  it ;  march 

Forth  to  a  land  where  all  our  wars  shall  be 

With  greedy  obstinate  plants  that  will  not  yield 

Fruit  for  their  nurture.    All  our  race  shall  come 

From  north,  west,  east,  a  kindred  multitude, 

And  make  large  fellowship,  and  raise  inspired 

The  shout  divine,  the  unison  of  resolve. 

So  I,  so  she,  will  see  our  race  redeemed. 

And  their  keen  love  of  family  and  tribe 

Shall  no  more  thrive  on  cunning,  hide  and  lurk 

In  petty  arts  of  abject  hunted  life. 

But  grow  heroic  in  the  sanctioning  light, 

And  feed  with  ardent  blood  a  nation's  heart. 

That  is  my  work  :  and  it  is  well  begun. 

On  to  achievement ! 

(He  takes  up  the  mail-shirt,  and  looks  at  it,  then 
throws  it  down  again,) 

ISTo,  I  '11  none  of  you ! 
To-day  there  '11  be  no  fighting.    A  few  hours, 
And  I  shall  doff  these  garments  of  the  Moor : 
Till  then  I  will  walk  lightly  and  breathe  high. 

Sephardo  (appearing  at  the  archway  leading  into  the 

outer  gallery). 
You  bade  me  wake  you  .... 

Zarca. 

Welcome,  Doctor;  see, 
With  that  small  task  I  did  but  beckon  you 
To  graver  work.    You  know  these  corpses  ? 

Sephardo. 

Yes. 

I  would  they  were  not  corpses.  Storms  will  lay 
The  fairest  trees-  and  leave  the  withered  stumps. 


248 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


This  Alvar  and  the  Duke  were  of  one  age, 
And  very  loving  friends.    I  minded  not 
The  sight  of  Don  Diego's  corpse,  for  death 
Gave  him  some  gentleness,  and  had  he  lived 
I  had  still  hated  him.    But  this  young  Alvar 
Was  doubly  noble,  as  a  gem  that  holds 
Eare  virtues  in  its  lustre,  and  his  death 
Will  pierce  Don  Silva  with  a  poisoned  dart. 
This  fair  and  curly  youth  was  Arias, 
A  son  of  the  Pachecos  ;  this  dark  face  — 

Zakca. 

Enough !  you  know  their  names.    I  had  divined 

That  they  were  near  the  Duke,  most  like  had  served 

My  daughter,  were  her  friends.    So  rescued  them 

From  being  flung  upon  the  heap  of  slain. 

Beseech  you.  Doctor,  if  you  owe  me  aught 

As  having  served  your  people,  take  the  pains 

To  see  these  bodies  buried  decently. 

And  let  their  names  be  writ  above  their  graves, 

As  those  of  brave  young  Spaniards  who  died  well. 

I  needs  must  bear  this  womanhood  in  my  heart,  — 

Bearing  my  daughter  there.    For  once  she  prayed,  — 

^T  was  at  our  parting,  —  "  When  you  see  fair  hair 

Be  pitiful.^'    And  I  am  forced  to  look 

On  fair  heads  living  and  be  pitiless. 

Your  service,  Doctor,  will  be  done  to  her. 

Sephardo. 

A  service  doubly  dear.    For  these  young  dead. 
And  one  less  happy  Spaniard  who  still  lives, 
Are  offerings  which  I  wrenched  from  out  my  heart, 
Constrained  by  cries  of  Israel :  while  my  hands 
Eendered  the  victims  at  command,  my  eyes 
Closed  themselves  vainly,  as  if  vision  lay 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


249 


Through  those  poor  loopholes  only.    I  will  go 
And  see  the  graves  dug  by  some  cypresses. 

Zarca. 

Meanwhile  the  bodies  shall  rest  here.  Farewell. 

(Exit  Sephaedo.) 
Nay,  ^t  is  no  mockery.    She  keeps  me  so 
From  hardening  with  the  hardness  of  my  acts. 
This  Spaniard  shrouded  in  her  love,  —  I  would 
He  lay  here  too  that  I  might  pity  him. 


Morning.  —  The  Pla^a  Santiago  in  Bedmdr,  A  crowd  of 
townsmen  forming  an  outer  circle :  within,  Zincali 
and  Moorish  soldiers  drawn  up  round  the  central  space. 
On  the  higher  ground  in  front  of  the  church  a  stake 
with  fagots  heaped,  and  at  a  little  distance  a  gibbet, 
Moorish  music,  Zarca  enters,  wearing  his  gold  neck- 
lace with  the  Gypsy  badge  of  the  flaming  torch  over 
the  dress  of  a  Moorish  captain,  accompanied  by  a 
small  band  of  armed  Zincali,  who  fall  aside  and  range 
themselves  with  the  other  soldiers  while  he  takes  his 
stand  in  front  of  the  stake  and  gibbet.  The  music 
ceases^  and  there  is  expectant  silence, 

Zarca. 

Men  of  Bedmar,  well-wishers,  and  allies, 
Whether  of  Moorish  or  of  Hebrew  blood, 
Who,  being  galled  by  the  hard  Spaniard's  yoke, 
Have  welcomed  our  quick  conquest  as  release, 
I,  Zarca,  the  Zincalo  chieftain,  hold 
By  delegation  of  the  Moorish  King 
Supreme  command  within  this  town  and  fort. 
Nor  will  I,  with  false  show  of  modesty. 


250  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Profess  myself  nnworthy  of  this  post, 

Por  so  I  should  but  tax  the  giver's  choice. 

And,  as  ye  know,  while  I  was  prisoner  here, 

Porging  the  bullets  meant  for  Moorish  hearts, 

But  likely  now  to  reach  another  mark, 

I  learned  the  secrets  of  the  town's  defence, 

Caught  the  loud  whispers  of  your  discontent, 

And  so  could  serve  the  purpose  of  the  Moor 

As  the  edge's  keenness  serves  the  weapon's  weight. 

And  my  Zincali,  lynx-eyed,  lithe  of  limb, 

Tracked  out  the  high  Sierra's  hidden  path, 

Guided  the  hard  ascent,  and  were  the  first 

To  scale  the  walls  and  brave  the  showering  stones. 

In  brief,  I  reached  this  rank  through  service  done 

By  thought  of  mine  and  valor  of  my  tribe, 

Yet  hold  it  but  in  trust,  with  readiness 

To  lay  it  down ;  for  I  and  my  Zincali 

Will  never  pitch  our  tents  again  on  land 

The  Spaniard  grudges  us  :  we  seek  a  home 

Where  we  may  spread  and  ripen  like  the  corn 

By  blessing  of  the  sun  and  spacious  earth. 

Ye  wish  us  well,  I  think,  and  are  our  friends  ? 

Crowd. 

Long  life  to  Zarca  and  his  strong  Zincali ! 

Zarca. 

Now,  for  the  cause  of  our  assembling  here. 
'T  was  my  command  that  rescued  from  your  hands 
That  Spanish  Prior  and  Inquisitor 
Whom  in  fierce  retribution  you  had  bound 
And  meant  to  burn,  tied  to  a  planted  cross. 
I  rescued  him  with  promise  that  his  death 
Should  be  more  signal  in  its  justice,  —  made 
Public  in  fullest  sense,  and  orderly. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


251 


Here,  then,  you  see  the  stake,  —  slow  death  by  fire ; 

And  there  a  gibbet,  —  swift  death  by  the  cord. 

Now  hear  me.  Moors  and  Hebrews  of  Bedmar, 

Our  kindred  by  the  warmth  of  Eastern  blood ! 

Punishing  cruel  wrong  by  cruelty 

We  copy  Christian  crime.    Vengeance  is  just : 

Justly  we  rid  the  earth  of  human  fiends 

Who  carry  hell  for  pattern  in  their  souls. 

But  in  high  vengeance  there  is  noble  scorn : 

It  tortures  not  the  torturer,  nor  gives 

Iniquitous  payment  for  iniquity. 

The  great  avenging  angel  does  not  crawl 

To  kill  the  serpent  with  a  mimic  fang ; 

He  stands  erect,  with  sword  of  keenest  edge 

That  slays  like  lightning.    So  too  we  will  slay 

The  cruel  man ;  slay  him  because  he  works 

Woe  to  mankind.    And  I  have  given  command 

To  pile  these  fagots,  not  to  burn  quick  flesh, 

But  for  a  sign  of  that  dire  wrong  to  men 

Which  arms  our  wrath  with  justice.    While,  to  show 

This  Christian  worshipper  that  we  obey 

A  better  law  than  his,  he  shall  be  led 

Straight  to  the  gibbet  and  to  swiftest  death. 

For  I,  the  chief  of  the  Zincali,  will. 

My  people  shed  no  blood  but  what  is  shed 

In  heat  of  battle  or  in  judgment  strict 

With  calm  deliberation  on  the  right. 

Such  is  my  will,  and  if  it  please  you,  —  well. 

Crowd. 

It  pleases  us.    Long  life  to  Zarca  ! 

Zarca. 

Hark! 

The  bell  is  striking,  and  they  bring  even  now 
The  prisoner  from  the  fort.    What,  Nadar  ? 


252  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Nadar  (has  appeared,  cutting  the  crowd,  and  advanc- 
ing toward  Zarca  till  he  is  near  enough  to  sjpeak  in 
an  undertone). 

CHef, 

I  have  obeyed  your  word,  have  followed  it 
As  water  does  the  furrow  in  the  rock. 

Zarca. 

Your  band  is  here  ? 

l^ADAR. 

Yes,  and  the  Spaniard  too. 
Zarca. 

was  so  I  ordered. 

Nadar. 

Ay,  but  this  sleek  hound, 
Who  slipped  his  collar  off  to  join  the  wolves, 
Has  still  a  heart  for  none  but  kennelled  brutes. 
He  rages  at  the  taking  of  the  town, 
Says  all  his  friends  are  butchered  ;  and  one  corpse 
He  stumbled  on,  —  well,  I  would  sooner  be 
A  dead  Zincalo's  dog,  and  howl  for  him, 
Than  be  this  Spaniard.    Eage  has  made  him  whiter. 
One  townsman  taunted  him  with  his  escape, 
And  thanked  him  for  so  favoring  us  

Zarca. 

Enough ! 

You  gave  him  my  command  that  he  should  wait 
"Within  the  castle,  till  I  saw  him  ? 

Nadar. 

Yes. 

But  he  defied  me,  broke  away,  ran  loose 
I  know  not  whither ;  he  may  soon  be  here. 
I  came  to  warn  you,  lest  he  work  us  harm. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


253 


Zarca. 

Fear  not,  I  know  the  road  I  travel  by : 

Its  turns  are  no  surprises.    He  who  rules 

Must  humor  full  as  much  as  he  commands ; 

Must  let  men  vow  impossibilities  ; 

Grant  folly's  prayers  that  hinder  folly's  wish 

And  serve  the  ends  of  wisdom.    Ah,  he  comes ! 

[Sweeping  like  some  pale  herald  from  the  dead, 
Whose  shadow-nurtured  eyes,  dazed  by  full  light, 
See  naught  without,  but  give  reverted  sense 
To  the  souPs  imagery,  Silva  came, 
The  wondering  people  parting  wide  to  get 
Continuous  sight  of  him  as  he  passed  on,  — 
This  high  hidalgo,  who  through  blooming  years 
Had  shone  on  men  with  planetary  calm. 
Believed  in  with  all  sacred  images 
And  saints  that  must  be  taken  as  they  were. 
Though  rendering  meagre  service  for  men's  praise, 
Bareheaded  now,  carrying  an  unsheathed  sword, 
And  on  his  breast,  where  late  he  bore  the  cross, 
Wearing  the  Gypsy  badge,  his  form  aslant, 
Driven,  it  seemed,  by  some  invisible  chase, 
Eight  to  the  front  of  Zarca.    There  he  paused.] 

DoK  Silva. 

Chief,  you  are  treacherous,  cruel,  devilish,  — 
Relentless  as  a  curse  that  once  let  loose 
From  lips  of  wrath,  lives  bodiless  to  destroy, 
And  darkly  traps  a  man  in  nets  of  guilt 
Which  could  not  weave  themselves  in  open  day 
Before  his  eyes.    Oh,  it  was  bitter  wrong 
To  hold  this  knowledge  locked  within  your  mind, 
To  stand  with  waking  eyes  in  broadest  light. 
And  see  me,  dreaming,  shed  my  kindred's  blood. 


254 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


is  horrible  that  men  with  hearts  and  hands 
Should  smile  in  silence  like  the  firmament 
And  see  a  fellow-mortal  draw  a  lot 
On  which  themselves  have  written  agony ! 
Such  injury  has  no  redress,  no  healing 
Save  what  may  lie  in  stemming  further  ill. 
Poor  balm  for  maiming !    Yet  I  come  to  claim  it. 

Zarca. 

First  prove  your  wrongs,  and  I  will  hear  your  claim. 

Mind,  you  are  not  commander  of  Bedmar, 

Nor  duke,  nor  knight,  nor  anything  for  me, 

Save  one  Zincalo,  one  of  my  subject  tribe, 

Over  whose  deeds  my  will  is  absolute. 

You  chose  that  lot,  and  would  have  railed  at  me 

Had  I  refused  it  you :  I  warned  you  first 

What  oaths  you  had  to  take  .... 

Don  Silva. 

You  never  warned 
That  you  had  linked  yourself  with  Moorish  men 
To  take  this  town  and  fortress  of  Bedmar,  — 
Slay  my  near  kinsmen,  him  who  held  my  place, 
Our  house's  heir  and  guardian,  —  slay  my  friend, 
My  chosen  brother,  —  desecrate  the  church 
Where  once  my  mother  held  me  in  her  arms, 
Making  the  holy  chrism  holier 
With  tears  of  joy  that  fell  upon  my  brow ! 
You  never  warned  .... 

Zarca. 

I  warned  you  of  your  oath. 
You  shrank  not,  were  resolved,  were  sure  your  place 
Would  never  miss  you,  and  you  had  your  will. 
I  am  no  priest,  and  keep  no  consciences : 
I  keep  my  own  place  and  my  own  command. 


THE  SPAOTSH  GYPSY. 


255 


Don  Silva. 
I  said  my  place  would  never  miss  me  —  yes  ! 
A  thousand  Spaniards  died  on  that  same  day 
And  were  not  missed ;  their  garments  clothed  the  backs 
That  else  were  bare  .... 

Zarca. 

But  you  were  just  the  one 
Above  the  thousand,  had  you  known  the  die 
That  fate  was  throwing  then. 

Don  Silva. 

You  knew  it,  —  you ! 
With  fiendish  knowledge,  smiling  at  the  end. 
You  knew  what  snares  had  made  my  flying  steps 
Murderous ;  you  let  me  lock  my  soul  with  oaths 
Which  your  acts  made  a  hellish  sacrament. 
I  say,  you  knew  this  as  a  fiend  would  know  it, 
And  let  me  damn  myself. 

Zarca. 

The  deed  was  done 
Before  you  took  your  oath,  or  reached  our  camp,  — 
Done  when  you  slipped  in  secret  from  the  post 
^T  was  yours  to  keep,  and  not  to  meditate 
If  others  might  not  fill  it.    For  your  oath, 
What  man  is  he  who  brandishes  a  sword 
In  darkness,  kills  his  friends,  and  rages  then 
Against  the  night  that  kept  him  ignorant  ? 
Should  I,  for  one  unstable  Spaniard,  quit 
My  steadfast  ends  as  father  and  as  chief ; 
Eenounce  my  daughter  and  my  people's  hope, 
Lest  a  deserter  should  be  made  ashamed  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Your  daughter,  —  0  great  God  !  I  vent  but  madness. 
The  past  will  never  change.    I  come  to  stem 


256 


POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Harm  that  may  yet  be  hindered.    Chief  —  this  stake  — 
Tell  me  who  is  to  die  !    Are  you  not  bound 
Yourself  to  him  you  took  in  fellowship  ? 
The  town  is  yours ;  let  me  but  save  the  blood 
That  still  is  warm  in  men  who  were  my  .... 

Zarca. 

Peace ! 

They  bring  the  prisoner. 

[Zarca  waved  his  arm 
With  head  averse,  in  peremptory  sign 
That  'twixt  them  now  there  should  be  space  and  silence. 
Most  eyes  had  turned  to  where  the  prisoner 
Advanced  among  his  guards ;  and  Silva  too 
Turned  eagerly,  all  other  striving  quelled 
By  striving  with  the  dread  lest  he  should  see 
His  thought  outside  him.    And  he  saw  it  there. 
The  prisoner  was  Father  Isidor : 
The  man  whom  once  he  fiercely  had  accused 
As  author  of  his  misdeeds,  —  whose  designs 
Had  forced  him  into  fatal  secrecy. 
The  imperious  and  inexorable  Will 
Was  yoked,  and  he  who  had  been  pitiless 
To  Silva's  love,  was  led  to  pitiless  death. 
0  hateful  victory  of  blind  wishes,  —  prayers 
Which  hell  had  overheard  and  swift  fulfilled  ! 
The  triumph  was  a  torture,  turning  all 
The  strength  of  passion  into  strength  of  pain. 
Remorse  was  born  within  him,  that  dire  birth 
Which  robs  all  else  of  nurture,  —  cancerous, 
Forcing  each  pulse  to  feed  its  anguish,  changing 
All  sweetest  residues  of  a  healthy  life 
To  fibrous  clutches  of  slow  misery. 
Silva  had  but  rebelled,  —  he  was  not  free ; 
And  all  the  subtle  cords  that  bound  his  soul 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  257 

Were  tightened  by  the  strain  of  one  rash  leap 

Made  in  defiance.    He  accused  no  more, 

But  dumbly  shrank  before  accusing  throngs 

Of  thoughts,  the  impetuous  recurrent  rush 

Of  all  his  past-created,  unchanged  self. 

The  Father  came  bareheaded,  frocked,  a  rope 

Around  his  neck, — but  clad  with  majesty, 

The  strength  of  resolute  undivided  souls 

Who,  owning  law,  obey  it.    In  his  hand 

He  bore  a  crucifix,  and  praying,  gazed 

Solely  on  that  white  image.    But  his  guards 

Parted  in  front,  and  paused  as  they  approached 

The  centre,  where  the  stake  was.  Isidor 

Lifted  his  eyes  to  look  around  him,  —  calm, 

Prepared  to  speak  last  words  of  willingness 

To  meet  his  death, — last  words  of  faith  unchanged, 

That,  working  for  Christ^s  kingdom,  he  had  wrought 

Righteously.    But  his  glance  met  Silva's  eyes 

And  drew  him.    Even  images  of  stone 

Look  living  with  reproach  on  him  who  maims, 

Profanes,  defiles  them.    Silva  penitent 

Moved  forward,  would  have  knelt  before  the  man 

Who  still  was  one  with  all  the  sacred  things 

That  came  back  on  him  in  their  sacredness, 

Kindred,  and  oaths,  and  awe,  and  mystery. 

But,  at  the  sight,  the  Father  thrust  the  cross 

With  deprecating  act  before  him,  and  his  face 

Pale-quivering,  flashed  out  horror  like  white  light 

Flashed  from  the  angel's  sword  that  dooming  drave 

The  sinner  to  the  wilderness.    He  spoke.] 

Father  Isidor. 

Back  from  me,  traitorous  and  accursed  man ! 
Defile  not  me,  who  grasp  the  holiest, 
17 


258  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  touch  or  breath  !    Thou  foulest  murderer  ! 
Fouler  than  Cain  who  struck  his  brother  down 
In  jealous  rage^  thou  for  thy  base  delight 
Hast  oped  the  gate  for  wolves  to  come  and  tear 
Uncounted  brethren,  weak  and  strong  alike, 
The  helpless  priest,  the  warrior  all  unarmed 
Against  a  faithless  leader :  on  thy  head 
Will  rest  the  sacrilege,  on  thy  soul  the  blood. 
These  blind  Zincali,  misbelievers,  Moors, 
Are  but  as  Pilate  and  his  soldiery ; 
Thou,  Judas,  weighted  with  that  heaviest  crime 
Which  deepens  hell !    I  warned  you  of  this  end. 
A  traitorous  leader,  false  to  God  and  man, 
A  knight  apostate,  you  shall  soon  behold 
Above  your  people's  blood  the  light  of  flames 
Kindled  by  you  to  burn  me,  —  burn  the  flesh 
Twin  with  your  father's.    0  most  wretched  man ! 
Whose  memory  shall  be  of  broken  oaths,  — 
Broken  for  lust,  —  I  turn  away  mine  eyes 
Forever  from  you.    See,  the  stake  is  ready : 
And  I  am  ready  too. 

Don  Silva. 

It  shall  not  be  ! 
(Raising  his  sword  he  rushes  in  front  of  the 
guards  who  are  advancing,  and  iinpedes 
them?) 

If  you  are  human.  Chief,  hear  my  demand ! 
Stretch  not  my  soul  upon  the  endless  rack 
Of  this  man's  torture  ! 

Zarca. 

Stand  aside,  my  lord ! 
Put  up  your  sword.    You  vowed  obedience 
To  me,  your  chief.    It  was  your  latest  vow. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


259 


Don  Silva. 
No  !  he'w  me  from  the  spot,  or  fasten  me 
Amid  the  fagots  too,  if  he  must  burn. 

Zarca. 

What  should  befall  that  persecuting  monk 

Was  fixed  before  you  came  :  no  cruelty, 

No  nicely  measured  torture,  weight  for  weight 

Of  injury,  no  luscious-toothed  revenge 

That  justifies  the  injurer  by  its  joy : 

I  seek  but  rescue  and  security 

For  harmless  men,  and  such  security 

Means  death  to  vipers  and  inquisitors. 

These  fagots  shall  but  innocently  blaze 

In  sign  of  gladness,  when  this  man  is  dead, 

That  one  more  torturer  has  left  the  earth, 

'T  is  not  for  infidels  to  burn  live  men 

And  ape  the  rules  of  Christian  piety. 

This  hard  oppressor  shall  not  die  by  fire : 

He  mounts  the  gibbet,  dies  a  speedy  death. 

That,  like  a  transfixed  dragon,  he  may  cease 

To  vex  mankind.    Quick,  guards,  and  clear  the  path ! 

[As  well-trained  hounds  that  hold  their  fleetness  tense 

In  watchful,  loving  fixity  of  dark  eyes, 

And  move  with  movement  of  their  master's  will, 

The  Gypsies  with  a  wavelike  swiftness  met 

Around  the  Father,  and  in  wheeling  course 

Passed  beyond  Silva  to  the  gibbet's  foot. 

Behind  their  chieftain.    Sudden  left  alone 

With  weapon  bare,  the  multitude  aloof, 

Silva  was  mazed  in  doubtful  consciousness, 

As  one  who  slumbering  in  the  day  aw^akes 

From  striving  into  freedom,  and  yet  feels 

His  sense  half  captive  to  intangible  things ; 

Then  with  a  flush  of  new  decision  sheathed 


260  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


His  futile  naked  weapon,  and  strode  quick 
To  Zarca,  speaking  with  a  voice  new-toned, 
The  struggling  soul's  hoarse,  suffocated  cry- 
Beneath  the  grappling  anguish  of  despair.] 

Don  Silva. 
Zincalo,  deril,  blackest  infidel ! 
You  cannot  hate  that  man  as  you  hate  me ! 
Finish  your  torture,  —  take  me,  —  lift  me  up 
And  let  the  crowd  spit  at  me,  —  every  Moor 
Shoot  reeds  at  me,  and  kill  me  with  slow  death 
Beneath  the  midday  fervor  of  the  sun,  — 
Or  crucify  me  with  a  thieving  hound,  — 
Slake  your  hate  so,  and  I  will  thank  it :  spare  me 
Only  this  man ! 

Zarca. 
Madman,  I  hate  you  not. 
But  if  I  did,  my  hate  were  poorly  served 
By  my  device,  if  I  should  strive  to  mix 
A  bitterer  misery  for  you  than  to  taste 
With  leisure  of  a  soul  in  unharmed  limbs 
The  flavor  of  your  folly.    For  my  course, 
It  has  a  goal,  and  takes  no  truant  path 
Because  of  you.    I  am  your  Chief :  to  me 
You  are  but  a  Zincalo  in  revolt. 

Don  Silva. 
No,  I  am  no  Zincalo  !    I  disown 
The  name  I  took  in  madness.    Here  I  tear 
This  badge  away.    I  am  a  Catholic  knight, 
A  Spaniard  who  will  die  a  Spaniard's  death ! 

[Hark !  while  he  casts  the  badge  upon  the  ground 
And  tramples  on  it,  Silva  hears  a  shout : 
Was  it  a  shout  that  threatened  him  ?    He  looked 
From  out  the  dizzying  flames  of  his  own  rage 


"  Down 

Fell  the  great  chief,  and  Silva,  staggering  back, 
Heard  not  the  shriek  of  the  Zincali." 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  261 

In  hope  of  adversaries,  —  and  lie  saw  above 

The  form  of  Father  Isidor  upswung 

Convulsed  with  martyr  throes ;  and  knew  the  shout 

For  wonted  exultation  of  the  crowd 

When  malefactors  die,  —  or  saints,  or  heroes. 

And  now  to  him  that  white-frocked  murdered  form 

Which  hanging  judged  him  as  its  murderer, 

Turned  to  a  symbol  of  his  guilt,  and  stirred 

Tremors  till  then  unwaked.    With  sudden  snatch 

At  something  hidden  in  his  breast,  he  strode 

E/ight  upon  Zarca :  at  the  instant,  down 

Fell  the  great  Chief,  and  Silva,  staggering  back, 

Heard  not  the  shriek  of  the  Zincali,  felt 

Not  their  fierce  grasp,  —  heard,  felt  but  Zarca's  words 

Which  seemed  his  soul  outleaping  in  a  cry 

And  urging  men  to  run  like  rival  waves 

Whose  rivalry  is  but  obedience. 

Zaeca  (as  he  falls). 
My  daughter  !  call  her  !    Call  my  daughter ! 

Nadar  (supporting  Zarca  and  crying  to  the  Gypsies 
who  have  clutched  Silva). 

Stay! 

Tear  not  the  Spaniard,  tie  him  to  the  stake : 
Hear  what  the  Chief  shall  bid  us,  —  there  is  time  ! 

[Swiftly  they  tied  him,  pleasing  vengeance  so 

With  promise  that  would  leave  them  free  to  watch 

Their  stricken  good,  their  Chief  stretched  helplessly 

Pillowed  upon  the  strength  of  loving  limbs. 

He  heaved  low  groans,  but  would  not  spend  his  breath 

In  useless  words :  he  waited  till  she  came, 

Keeping  his  life  within  the  citadel 

Of  one  great  hope.    And  now  around  him  closed 


262  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


(But  in  wide  circle,  checked  by  loying  fear) 

His  people  all,  holding  their  wails  suppressed 

Lest  death  believed-in  should  be  oyer-bold : 

All  life  hung  on  their  Chief,  —  he  would  not  die ; 

His  image  gone,  there  were  no  wholeness  left 

To  make  a  world  of  for  Zincali's  thought. 

Eager  they  stood,  but  hushed ;  the  outer  crowd 

Spoke  only  in  low  murmurs,  and  some  climbed 

And  clung  with  legs  and  arms  on  perilous  coigns, 

Striving  to  see  where  that  colossal  life 

Lay  panting,  —  lay  a  Titan  struggling  still 

To  hold  and  give  the  precious  hidden  fire 

Before  the  stronger  grappled  him.  Above 

The  young  bright  morning  cast  athwart  white  walls 

Her  shadows  blue,  and  with  their  clear-cut  line, 

Mildly  inexorable  as  the  dial-hand's 

Measured  the  shrinking  future  of  an  hour 

Which  held  a  shrinking  hope.    And  all  the  while 

The  silent  beat  of  time  in  each  man's  soul 

Made  aching  pulses. 

But  the  cry,  "  She  comes  ! 
Parted  the  crowd  like  waters :  and  she  came. 
Swiftly  as  once  before,  inspired  with  joy, 
She  flashed  across  the  space  and  made  new  light, 
Glowing  upon  the  glow  of  evening, 
So  swiftly  now  she  came,  inspired  with  woe, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  all  her  father's  pain. 
Thrilling  her  as  with  fire  of  rage  divine 
And  battling  energy.    She  knew,  —  saw  all : 
The  stake  with  Silva  bound,  —  her  father  pierced,  — 
To  this  she  had  been  born :  the  second  time 
Her  father  called  her  to  the  task  of  life. 

She  knelt  beside  him.  Then  he  raised  himself. 
And  on  her  face  there  flashed  from  his  the  light 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


263 


As  of  a  star  that  waned  and  flames  anew 

In  mighty  dissolution :  ^t  was  the  flame 

Of  a  surviving  trust,  in  agony. 

He  spoke  the  parting  prayer  that  was  command, 

Must  sway  her  will,  and  reign  invisibly.] 

Zarca. 

My  daughter,  you  have  promised,  —  you  will  live 

To  save  our  people.    In  my  garments  here 

I  carry  written  pledges  from  the  Moor : 

He  will  keep  faith  in  Spain  and  Africa. 

Your  weakness  may  be  stronger  than  my  strength, 

Winning  more  love.    I  cannot  tell  the  end. 

I  held  my  people's  good  within  my  breast. 

Behold,  now  I  deliver  it  to  you. 

See,  it  still  breathes  unstrangled,  —  if  it  dies. 

Let  not  your  failing  will  be  murderer.  Else, 

And  tell  our  people  now  I  wait  in  pain,  — 

I  cannot  die  until  I  hear  them  say 

They  will  obey  you. 

[Meek,  she  pressed  her  lips 
With  slow  solemnity  upon  his  brow, 
Sealing  her  pledges.    Firmly  then  she  rose. 
And  met  her  people's  eyes  with  kindred  gaze, 
Dark-flashing,  fired  by  effort  strenuous 
Trampling  on  pain.] 

Tedalma. 

Zincali  all,  who  hear  ! 
Your  Chief  is  dying :  I  his  daughter  live 
To  do  his  dying  will.    He  asks  you  now 
To  promise  me  obedience  as  your  Queen, 
That  we  may  seek  the  land  he  won  for  us. 
And  live  the  better  life  for  which  he  toiled. 
Speak  now,  and  fill  my  father's  dying  ear 


264  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  promise  that  you  will  obey  him  dead, 
Obeying  me  his  child. 

[Straightway  arose 
A  shout  of  promise,  sharpening  into  cries 
That  seemed  to  plead  despairingly  with  death.] 

The  Zincali. 
We  will  obey  !    Our  Chief  shall  never  die  ! 
We  will  obey  him,  —  will  obey  our  Queen  ! 

[The  shout  unanimous,  the  concurrent  rush 

Of  many  voices,  quiring  shook  the  air 

With  multitudinous  wave  :  now  rose,  now  fell, 

Then  rose  again,  the  echoes  following  slow. 

As  if  the  scattered  brethren  of  the  tribe 

Had  caught  afar  and  joined  the  ready  vow. 

Then  some  could  hold  no  longer,  but  must  rush 

To  kiss  his  dying  feet,  and  some  to  kiss 

The  hem  of  their  Queen's  garment.    But  she  raised 

Her  hand  to  hush  them.    "  Hark  !  your  Chief  may  speak 

Another  wish.''    Quickly  she  kneeled  again. 

While  they  upon  the  ground  kept  motionless. 

With  head  outstretched.   They  heard  his  words  ;  for  now, 

Grasping  at  Nadar's  arm,  he  spoke  more  loud, 

As  one  who,  having  fought  and  conquered,  hurls 

His  strength  away  with  hurling  off  his  shield.] 

Zarca. 

Let  loose  the  Spaniard  !  give  him  back  his  sword ; 
He  cannot  move  to  any  vengeance  more,  — 
His  soul  is  locked  'twixt  two  opposing  crimes. 
I  charge  you  let  him  go  unharmed  and  free 
Now  through  your  midst  

[With  that  he  sank  again,  — 
His  breast  heaved  strongly  toward  sharp  sudden  falls, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


265 


And  all  his  life  seemed  needed  for  each  breath : 
Yet  once  he  spoke.] 

My  daughter,  lay  your  arm 
Beneath  my  head,  —  so,  —  bend  and  breathe  on  me. 
I  cannot  see  you  more,  —  the  Xight  is  come. 
Be  strong,  —  remember,  —  I  can  only  —  die. 

[His  voice  went  into  silence,  but  his  breast 
Heaved  long  and  moaned :  its  broad  strength  kept  a  life 
That  heard  naught,  saw  naught,  save  what  once  had 
been. 

And  what  might  be  in  days  and  realms  afar,  — 
Which  now  in  pale  procession  faded  on 
Toward  the  thick  darkness.    And  she  bent  above 
In  sacramental  watch  to  see  great  Death, 
Companion  of  her  future,  who  would  wear 
Forever  in  her  eyes  her  father's  form. 

And  yet  she  knew  that  hurrying  feet  had  gone 

To  do  the  Chief's  behest,  and  in  her  soul 

He  who  was  once  its  lord  was  being  jarred 

With  loosening  of  cords,  that  would  not  loose 

The  tightening  torture  of  his  anguish.    This,  — 

Oh  she  knew  it !  —  knew  it  as  martyrs  knew 

The  prongs  that  tore  their  flesh,  while  yet  their  tongues 

Refused  the  ease  of  lies.    In  moments  high 

Space  widens  in  the  soul.    And  so  she  knelt, 

Clinging  with  piety  and  awed  resolve 

Beside  this  altar  of  her  father's  life. 

Seeing  long  travel  under  solemn  suns 

Stretching  beyond  it ;  never  turned  her  eyes, 

Y^et  felt  that  Silva  passed ;  beheld  his  face 

Pale,  vivid,  all  alone,  imploring  her 

Across  black  waters  fathomless. 


266  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  lie  passed. 

The  Gypsies  made  wide  pathway,  shrank  aloof 

As  those  who  fear  to  touch  the  thing  they  hate, 

Lest  hate  triumphant,  mastering  all  the  limbs, 

Should  tear,  bite,  crush,  in  spite  of  hindering  will. 

Slowly  he  walked,  reluctant  to  be  safe 

And  bear  dishonored  life  which  none  assailed ; 

Walked  hesitatingly,  all  his  frame  instinct 

With  high-born  spirit,  never  used  to  dread 

Or  crouch  for  smiles,  yet  stung,  yet  quivering 

With  helpless  strength,  and  in  his  soul  convulsed 

By  visions  where  pale  horror  held  a  lamp 

Over  wide-reaching  crime.    Silence  hung  round  : 

It  seemed  the  Plaga  hushed  itself  to  hear 

His  footsteps  and  the  Chiefs  deep  dying  breath. 

Eyes  quickened  in  the  stillness,  and  the  light 

Seemed  one  clear  gaze  upon  his  misery. 

And  yet  he  could  not  pass  her  without  pause : 

One  instant  he  must  pause  and  look  at  her ; 

But  with  that  glance  at  her  averted  head, 

New-urged  by  pain  he  turned  away  and  went, 

Carrying  forever  with  him  what  he  fled,  — 

Her  murdered  love,  — her  love,  a  dear  wronged  ghost, 

Facing  him,  beauteous,  'mid  the  throngs  of  hell. 

0  fallen  and  forsaken  !  were  no  hearts 

Amid  that  crowd,  mindful  of  what  had  been  ?  — 

Hearts  such  as  wait  on  beggared  royalty. 

Or  silent  watch  by  sinners  who  despair  ? 

Silva  had  vanished.    That  dismissed  revenge 
Made  larger  room  for  sorrow  in  fierce  hearts ; 
And  sorrow  filled  them.    For  the  Chief  was  dead. 
The  mighty  breast  subsided  slow  to  calm. 
Slow  from  the  face  the  ethereal  spirit  waned, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


267 


As  wanes  tlie  parting  glory  from  the  heights, 
And  leaves  them  in  their  pallid  majesty. 
Fedalma  kissed  the  marble  lips,  and  said, 
"  He  breathes  no  more."    And  then  a  long  loud  wail 
Poured  out  upon  the  morning,  made  her  light 
Ghastly  as  smiles  on  some  fair  maniac's  face 
Smiling  unconscious  o'er  her  bridegroom's  corse. 
The  wailing  men  in  eager  press  closed  round, 
And  made  a  shadowing  pall  beneath  the  sun. 
They  lifted  reverent  the  prostrate  strength, 
Sceptred  anew  by  death.    Fedalma  walked 
Tearless,  erect,  following  the  dead,  —  her  cries 
Deep  smothering  in  her  breast,  as  one  who  guides 
Her  children  through  the  wilds,  and  sees  and  knows 
Of  danger  more  than  they,  and  feels  more  pangs. 
Yet  shrinks  not,  groans  not,  bearing  in  her  heart 
Their  ignorant  misery  and  their  trust  in  her. 


BOOK  y. 


THE  eastward  rocks  of  AlmenVs  bay- 
Answer  long  farewells  of  the  travelling  sun 
With  softest  glow  as  from  an  inward  pulse 
Changing  and  flushing :  all  the  Moorish  ships 
Seem  conscious  too,  and  shoot  out  sudden  shadows ; 
Their  black  hulls  snatch  a  glory,  and  their  sails 
Show  variegated  radiance,  gently  stirred 
Like  broad  wings  poised.    Two  galleys  moored  apart 
Show  decks  as  busy  as  a  home  of  ants 
Storing  new  forage  ;  from  their  sides  the  boats 
Slowly  pushed  off,  anon  with  flashing  oar 
Make  transit  to  the  quay's  smooth-quarried  edge, 
Where  thronging  Gypsies  are  in  haste  to  lade 
Each  as  it  comes  with  grandames,  babes,  and  wives, 
Or  with  dust-tinted  goods,  the  company 
Of  wandering  years.    Naught  seems  to  lie  unmoved, 
Eor  'mid  the  throng  the  lights  and  shadows  play, 
And  make  all  surface  eager,  while  the  boats 
Sway  restless  as  a  horse  that  heard  the  shouts 
And  surging  hum  incessant.    ISTaked  limbs 
With  beauteous  ease  bend,  lift,  and  throw,  or  raise 
High  signalling  hands.    The  black-haired  mother  steps 
Athwart  the  boat's  edge,  and  with  opened  arms, 
A  wandering  Isis  outcast  from  the  gods. 
Leans  towards  her  lifted  little  one.    The  boat 
Full-laden  cuts  the  waves,  and  dirge-like  cries 
Eise  and  then  fall  within  it  as  it  moves 
From  high  to  lower  and  from  bright  to  dark. 
Hither  and  thither,  grave  white-turbaned  Moors 
Move  helpfully,  and  some  bring  welcome  gifts, 


270 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Bright  stuffs  and  cutlery,  and  bags  of  seed 

To  make  new  waving  crops  in  Africa. 

Others  aloof  with  folded  arms  slow-eyed 

Survey  man's  labor,  saying,  "  God  is  great ; " 

Or  seek  with  question  deep  the  Gypsies'  root, 

And  whether  their  false  faith,  being  small,  will  prove 

Less  damning  than  the  copious  false  creeds 

Of  Jews  and  Christians  :  Moslem  subtlety 

Found  balanced  reasons,  warranting  suspense 

As  to  whose  hell  was  deepest,  —  't  was  enough 

That  there  was  room  for  all.    Thus  the  sedate. 

The  younger  heads  were  busy  with  the  tale 

Of  that  great  Chief  whose  exploits  helped  the  Moor. 

And,  talking  still,  they  shouldered  past  their  friends, 

Following  some  lure  which  held  their  distant  gaze 

To  eastward  of  the  quay,  where  yet  remained 

A  low  black  tent  close  guarded  all  around 

By  armed  Zincali.    Fronting  it  above, 

Eaised  by  stone  steps  that  sought  a  jutting  strand, 

Fedalma  stood  and  marked  with  anxious  watch 

Each  laden  boat  the  remnant  lessening 

Of  cargo  on  the  shore,  or  traced  the  course 

Of  Nadar  to  and  fro  in  hard  command 

Of  noisy  tumult ;  imaging  oft  anew 

How  much  of  labor  still  deferred  the  hour 

When  they  must  lift  the  boat  and  bear  away 

Her  father's  coffin,  and  her  feet  must  quit 

This  shore  forever.    Motionless  she  stood. 

Black-crowned  with  wreaths  of  many-shadowed  hair ; 

Black-robed,  but  wearing  wide  upon  her  breast 

Her  father's  golden  necklace  and  his  badge. 

Her  limbs  were  motionless,  but  in  her  eyes 

And  in  her  breathing  lip's  soft  tremulous  curve 

Was  intense  motion  as  of  prisoned  fire 

Escaping  subtly  in  outleaping  thought. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


271 


She  watches  anxiously,  and  yet  she  dreams : 

The  busy  moments  now  expand,  now  shrink 

To  narrowing  swarms  within  the  refluent  space 

Of  changeful  consciousness.    For  in  her  thought 

Already  she  has  left  the  fading  shore, 

Sails  with  her  people,  seeks  an  unknown  land, 

And  bears  the  burning  length  of  weary  days 

That  parching  fall  upon  her  father's  hope, 

Which  she  must  plant  and  see  it  wither  only,  — 

Wither  and  die.    She  saw  the  end  begun. 

Zincali  hearts  were  not  unfaithful :  she 

Was  centre  to  the  savage  loyalty 

Which  vowed  obedience  to  Zarca  dead. 

But  soon  their  natures  missed  the  constant  stress 

Of  his  command,  that,  while  it  fired,  restrained 

By  urgency  supreme,  and  left  no  play 

To  fickle  impulse  scattering  desire. 

They  loved  their  Queen,  trusted  in  Zarca's  child, 

Would  bear  her  o'er  the  desert  on  their  arms 

And  think  the  weight  a  gladsome  victory ; 

But  that  great  force  which  knit  them  into  one, 

The  invisible  passion  of  her  father's  soul. 

That  wrought  them  visibly  into  its  will. 

And  would  have  bound  their  lives  with  permanence. 

Was  gone.    Already  Hassan  and  two  bands. 

Drawn  by  fresh  baits  of  gain,  had  newly  sold 

Their  service  to  the  Moors,  despite  her  call. 

Known  as  the  echo  of  her  father's  will. 

To  all  the  tribe,  that  they  should  pass  with  her 

Straightway  to  Telemsan.    They  were  not  moved 

By  worse  rebellion  than  the  wilful  wish 

To  fashion  their  own  service ;  they  still  meant 

To  come  when  it  should  suit  them.    But  she  said, 

This  is  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  hand, 

Sure-threatening.    In  a  little  while,  the  tribe 


272  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  was  to  be  the  ensign  of  the  race, 
And  draw  it  into  conscious  union, 
Itself  would  break  in  small  and  scattered  bands 
That,  living  on  scant  prey,  would  still  disperse 
And  propagate  forgetfulness.    Brief  years, 
And  that  great  purpose  fed  with  vital  fire 
That  might  have  glowed  for  half  a  century, 
Subduing,  quickening,  shaping,  like  a  sun,  — 
Would  be  a  faint  tradition,  flickering  low 
In  dying  memories,  fringing  with  dim  light 
The  nearer  dark. 

Far,  far  the  future  stretched 
Beyond  that  busy  present  on  the  quay. 
Far  her  straight  path  beyond  it.    Yet  she  watched 
To  mark  the  growing  hour,  and  yet  in  dream 
Alternate  she  beheld  another  track. 
And  felt  herself  unseen  pursuing  it 
Close  to  a  wanderer,  who  with  haggard  gaze 
Looked  out  on  loneliness.    The  backward  years  — 
Oh  she  would  not  forget  them  —  would  not  drink 
Of  waters  that  brought  rest,  while  he  far  off 
Eemembered.    "  Father,  I  renounced  the  joy,  — 
You  must  forgive  the  sorrow." 

So  she  stood, 

Her  struggling  life  compressed  into  that  hour, 

Yearning,  resolving,  conquering ;  though  she  seemed 

Still  as  a  tutelary  image  sent 

To  guard  her  people  and  to  be  the  strength 

Of  some  rock-citadel. 

Below  her  sat 
Slim  mischievous  Hinda,  happy,  red-bedecked 
With  row  of  berries,  grinning,  nodding  oft. 
And  shaking  high  her  small  dark  arm  and  hand 
Responsive  to  the  black-maned  Ismael, 
Who  held  aloft  his  spoil,  and  clad  in  skins 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


273 


Seemed  the  Boy-prophet  of  the  wilderness 

Escaped  from  tasks  prophetic.    But  anon 

Hinda  would  backward  turn  upon  her  knees, 

And  like  a  pretty  loving  hound  would  bend 

To  fondle  her  Queen's  feet^  then  lift  her  head 

Hoping  to  feel  the  gently  pressing  palm 

Which  touched  the  deeper  sense.    Fedalma  knew,  — 

From  out  the  black  robe  stretched  her  speaking  hand 

And  shared  the  girl's  content. 

So  the  dire  hours 
Burdened  with  destiny,  —  the  death  of  hopes 
Darkening  long  generations,  or  the  birth 
Of  thoughts  undying,  —  such  hours  sweep  along 
In  their  aerial  ocean  measureless 
Myriads  of  little  joys,  that  ripen  sweet 
And  soothe  the  sorrowful  spirit  of  the  world, 
Groaning  a  ad  travailing  with  the  painful  birth 
Of  slow  redemption. 

But  emerging  now 
From  eastward  fringing  lines  of  idling  men 
Quick  Juan  lightly  sought  the  upward  steps 
Behind  Fedalma,  and  two  paces  off, 
With  head  uncovered,  said  in  gentle  tones, 

Lady  Fedalma  ! ''  —  (Juan's  password  now 
Used  by  no  other,)  and  Fedalma  turned, 
Knowing  who  sought  her.    He  advanced  a  step, 
And  meeting  straight  her  large  calm  questioning  gaze, 
Warned  her  of  some  grave  purport  by  a  face 
That  told  of  trouble.    Lower  still  he  spoke. 

JuAN". 

Look  from  me,  lady,  towards  a  moving  form 

That  quits  the  crowd  and  seeks  the  lonelier  strand,  — 

A  tall  and  gray-clad  pilgrim  .... 

18 


274  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


[Solemnly 

His  low  tones  fell  on  her^  as  if  she  passed 

Into  religious  dimness  among  tombs, 

And  trod  on  names  in  everlasting  rest. 

Lingeringly  she  looked,  and  then  with  voice 

Deep  and  yet  soft,  like  notes  from  some  long  chord 

Eesponsive  to  thrilled  air,  said :] 

Ted  ALMA. 

It  is  he  ! 

[Juan  kept  silence  for  a  little  space. 
With  reverent  caution,  lest  his  lighter  grief 
Might  seem  a  wanton  touch  upon  her  pain. 
But  time  was  urging  him  with  visible  flight, 
Changing  the  shadows  :  he  must  utter  all.] 

Juan. 

That  man  was  young  when  last  I  pressed  his  hand,  — 

In  that  dread  moment  when  he  left  Bedmar. 

He  has  aged  since  :  the  week  has  made  him  gray. 

And  yet  I  knew  him,  —  knew  the  white-streaked  hair 

Before  I  saw  his  face,  as  I  should  know 

The  tear-dimmed  writing  of  a  friend.    See  now,  — 

Does  he  not  linger,  — pause  ?  —  perhaps  expect  .... 

[Juan  plead  timidly  :  Fedalma's  eyes 

Flashed ;  and  through  all  her  frame  there  ran  the  shock 

Of  some  sharp-wounding  joy,  like  his  who  hastes 

And  dreads  to  come  too  late,  and  comes  in  time 

To  press  a  loved  hand  dying.    She  was  mute 

And  made  no  gesture  :  all  her  being  paused 

In  resolution,  as  some  leonine  wave 

That  makes  a  moment's  silence  ere  it  leaps.] 

Juan. 

He  came  from  Carthagena,  in  a  boat 

Too  slight  for  safety ;  yon  small  two-oared  boat 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


275 


Below  the  rock  ;  the  fisher-boy  within 
Awaits  his  signal    But  the  pilgrim  waits  .... 

Fed  ALMA. 

Yes,  I  will  go  !  —  Father,  I  owe  him  this, 

For  loving  me  made  all  his  misery. 

And  we  will  look  once  more,  —  will  say  farewell 

As  in  a  solemn  rite  to  strengthen  us 

For  our  eternal  parting.    Juan,  stay 

Here  in  my  place,  to  warn  me  were  there  need. 

And,  Hinda,  follow  me ! 

[All  men  who  watched 
Lost  her  regretfully,  then  drew  content 
From  thought  that  she  must  quickly  come  again, 
And  filled  the  time  with  striving  to  be  near. 
She,  down  the  steps,  along  the  sandy  brink 
To  where  he  stood,  walked  firm ;  with  quickened  step 
The  moment  when  each  felt  the  other  saw. 
He  moved  at  sight  of  her  :  their  glances  met ; 
It  seemed  they  could  no  more  remain  aloof 
Than  nearing  waters  hurrying  into  one. 
Yet  their  steps  slackened  and  they  paused  apart, 
Pressed  backward  by  the  force  of  memories 
Which  reigned  supreme  as  death  above  desire. 
Two  paces  off  they  stood  and  silently 
Looked  at  each  other.    Was  it  well  to  speak  ? 
Could  speech  be  clearer,  stronger,  tell  them  more 
Than  that  long  gaze  of  their  renouncing  love  ? 
They  passed  from  silence  hardly  knowing  how ; 
It  seemed  they  heard  each  other's  thought  before.] 

Don  Silva. 

I  go  to  be  absolved,  to  have  my  life 

Washed  into  fitness  for  an  offering 

To  injured  Spain.    But  I  have  naught  to  give 


276  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


For  that  last  injury  to  her  I  loved 

Better  than  I  loved  Spain.    I  am  accurst 

Above  all  sinners,  being  made  the  curse 

Of  her  I  sinned  for.    Pardon !  Penitence  ! 

When  they  have  done  their  utmost,  still  beyond 

Out  of  their  reach  stands  Injury  unchanged 

And  changeless.    I  should  see  it  still  in  heaven,  — 

Out  of  my  reach,  forever  in  my  sight : 

Wearing  your  grief,  't  would  hide  the  smiling  seraphs. 

I  bring  no  puling  prayer,  Fedalma,  —  ask 

No  balm  of  pardon  that  may  soothe  my  soul 

For  others'  bleeding  wounds :  I  am  not  come 

To  say,  "  Forgive  me  :  "  you  must  not  forgive, 

For  you  must  see  me  ever  as  I  am,  — 

Your  father's  .... 

Fedalma. 

Speak  it  not !  Calamity 
Comes  like  a  deluge  and  o'erfloods  our  crimes. 
Till  sin  is  hidden  in  woe.    You  —  I  —  we  two, 
Grasping  we  knew  not  what,  that  seemed  delight, 
Opened  the  sluices  of  that  deep. 

Don  Silva. 

We  two?  — 
Fedalma,  you  were  blameless,  helpless. 

Fedalma. 

No! 

It  shall  not  be  that  you  did  aught  alone. 
For  when  we  loved  I  willed  to  reign  in  you, 
And  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  day 
If  it  could  gladden  you  apart  from  me. 
And  so,  it  must  be  that  I  shared  each  deed 
Our  love  was  root  of. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


277 


Don  Silya. 

Dear !  you  share  the  woe,  — 
Nay,  the  worst  dart  of  vengeance  fell  on  you. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Vengeance  !   She  does  but  sweep  us  with  her  skirts,  — 

She  takes  large  space,  and  lies  a  baleful  light 

Revolving  with  long  years,  —  sees  children's  children. 

Blights  them  in  their  prime.    Oh,  if  two  lovers  leaned 

To  breathe  one  air  and  spread  a  pestilence, 

They  would  but  lie  two  livid  victims  dead 

Amid  the  city  of  the  dying.  We 

With  our  poor  petty  lives  have  strangled  one 

That  ages  watch  for  vainly. 

Don  Silya. 

Deep  despair 
Fills  all  your  tones  as  with  slow  agony. 
Speak  words  that  narrow  anguish  to  some  shape : 
Tell  me  what  dread  is  close  before  you  ? 

Fed  ALMA. 

None. 

No  dread,  but  clear  assurance  of  the  end. 
My  father  held  within  his  mighty  frame 
A  people's  life :  great  futures  died  with  him 
Never  to  rise,  until  the  time  shall  ripe 
Some  other  hero  with  the  will  to  save 
The  lost  Zincali. 

Don  Silya. 

Yet  your  people's  shout  — 
I  heard  it  —  sounded  as  the  plenteous  rush 
Of  full-fed  sources,  shaking  their  wild  souls 
With  power  that  promised  sway. 


278  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fedalma. 

Ah  yes,  that  shout 
Came  from  full  hearts  :  they  meant  obedience. 
But  they  are  orphaned :  their  poor  childish  feet 
Are  vagabond  in  spite  of  love,  and  stray 
Forgetful  after  little  lures.    For  me,  — 
I  am  but  as  the  funeral  urn  that  bears 
The  ashes  of  a  leader. 

Doisr  SiLVA. 

0  great  God ! 
What  am  I  but  a  miserable  brand 

Lit  by  mysterious  wrath  ?    I  lie  cast  down 
A  blackened  branch  upon  the  desolate  ground 
Where  once  I  kindled  ruin.    I  shall  drink 
No  cup  of  purest  water  but  will  taste 
Bitter  with  thy  lone  hopelessness,  Fedalma. 

Fed  ALMA. 

Nay,  Silva,  think  of  me  as  one  who  sees 
A  light  serene  and  strong  on  one  sole  path 

Which  she  will  tread  till  death  

He  trusted  me,  and  I  will  keep  his  trust : 

My  life  shall  be  its  temple.    I  will  plant 

His  sacred  hope  within  the  sanctuary 

And  die  its  priestess,  —  though  I  die  alone, 

A  hoary  woman  on  the  altar  step, 

Cold  ^mid  cold  ashes.    That  is  my  chief  good. 

The  deepest  hunger  of  a  faithful  heart 

Is  faithfulness.    Wish  me  naught  else.    And  you,  — 

You  too  will  live  

Don  Silva. 

1  go  to  Eome,  to  seek 
The  right  to  use  my  knightly  sword  again ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


279 


The  right  to  fill  my  place  and  live  or  die 

So  that  all  Spaniards  shall  not  curse  my  name. 

I  sat  one  hour  upon  the  barren  rock 

And  longed  to  kill  myself ;  but  then  I  said, 

I  will  not  leave  my  name  in  infamy, 

I  will  not  be  perpetual  rottenness 

Upon  the  Spaniard's  air.    If  I  must  sink 

At  last  to  hell^  I  will  not  take  my  stand 

Among  the  coward  crew  who  could  not  bear 

The  harm  themselves  had  done^  which  others  bore. 

My  young  life  yet  may  fill  some  bloody  breach, 

And  I  will  take  no  pardon,  not  my  own^ 

Not  God's,  — no  pardon  idly  on  my  knees  ; 

But  it  shall  come  to  me  upon  my  feet 

And  in  the  thick  of  action,  and  each  deed 

That  carried  shame  and  wrong  shall  be  the  sting 

That  drives  me  higher  up  the  steep  of  honor 

In  deeds  of  duteous  service  to  that  Spain 

Who  nourished  me  on  her  expectant  breast, 

The  heir  of  highest  gifts.    I  will  not  fling 

My  earthly  being  down  for  carrion 

To  fill  the  air  with  loathing  :  I  will  be 

The  living  prey  of  some  fierce  noble  death 

That  leaps  upon  me  while  I  move.  Aloud 

I  said,  "  I  will  redeem  my  name,''  and  then,  — 

I  know  not  if  aloud :  I  felt  the  words 

Drinking  up  all  my  senses,  — She  still  lives. 

I  would  not  quit  the  dear  familiar  earth 

Where  both  of  us  behold  the  selfsame  sun. 

Where  there  can  be  no  strangeness  'twixt  our  thoughts 

So  deep  as  their  communion."  Eesolute 

I  rose  and  walked.  —  Fedalma,  think  of  me 

As  one  who  will  regain  the  only  life 

Where  he  is  other  than  apostate,  —  one 

Who  seeks  but  to  renew  and  keep  the  vows 


280  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Of  Spanish  knight  and  noble.    But  the  breach 
Outside  those  vows  —  the  fatal  second  breach  — 
Lies  a  dark  gulf  where  I  have  naught  to  cast, 
Not  even  expiation,  —  poor  pretence, 
Which  changes  naught  but  what  survives  the  past, 
And  raises  not  the  dead.    That  deep  dark  gulf 
Divides  us. 

Fed  ALMA. 
Yes,  forever.    We  must  walk 
Apart  unto  the  end.    Our  marriage  rite 
Is  our  resolve  that  we  will  each  be  true 
To  high  allegiance,  higher  than  our  love,  — 
Our  dear  young  love,  —  its  breath  was  happiness  ! 
But  it  had  grown  upon  a  larger  life 
Which  tore  its  roots  asunder.    We  rebelled,  — 
The  larger  life  subdued  us.    Yet  we  are  wed ; 
For  we  shall  carry  each  the  pressure  deep 
Of  the  other's  soul.    I  soon  shall  leave  the  shore. 
The  winds  to-night  will  bear  me  far  away. 
My  lord,  farewell ! 

[He  did  not  say  Farewell." 
But  neither  knew  that  he  was  silent.  She, 
F'or  one  long  moment,  moved  not.    They  knew  naught 
Save  that  they  parted ;  for  their  mutual  gaze 
As  with  their  soul's  full  speech  forbade  their  hands 
To  seek  each  other,  —  those  oft-clasping  hands 
Which  had  a  memory  of  their  own,  and  went 
Widowed  of  one  dear  touch  forevermore. 
At  last  she  turned  and  with  swift  movement  passed, 
Beckoning  to  Hinda,  who  was  bending  low 
And  lingered  still  to  wash  her  shells,  but  soon 
Leaping  and  scampering  followed,  while  her  Queen 
Mounted  the  steps  again  and  took  her  place, 
Which  Juan  rendered  silently. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


281 


And  now 

The  press  npon  the  quay  was  thinned ;  the  ground 
Was  cleared  of  cumbering  heaps,  the  eager  shouts 
Had  sunk,  and  left  a  murmur  more  restrained 
By  common  purpose.    All  the  men  ashore 
Were  gathering  into  ordered  companies, 
And  with  less  clamor  filled  the  waiting  boats, 
As  if  the  speaking  light  commanded  them 
To  quiet  speed :  for  now  the  farewell  glow 
Was  on  the  topmost  heights,  and  where  far  ships 
Were  southward  tending,  tranquil,  slow,  and  white 
Upon  the  luminous  meadow  toward  the  verge. 
The  quay  was  in  still  shadow,  and  the  boats 
Went  sombrely  upon  the  sombre  waves. 
Fedalma  watched  again ;  but  now  her  gaze 
Takes  in  the  eastward  bay,  where  that  small  bark 
Which  held  the  fisher  boy  floats  weightier 
With  one  more  life,  that  rests  upon  the  oar 
Watching  with  her.    He  would  not  go  away 
Till  she  was  gone ;  he  would  not  turn  his  face 
Away  from  her  at  parting :  but  the  sea 
Should  widen  slowly  ^twixt  their  seeking  eyes. 

The  time  was  coming.    ISTadar  had  approached. 

Was  the  Queen  ready  ?    Would  she  follow  now 

Her  father's  body  ?    For  the  largest  boat 

Was  waiting  at  the  quay,  the  last  strong  band 

Of  armed  Zincali  ranged  themselves  in  lines 

To  guard  her  passage  and  to  follow  her. 

"  Yes,  I  am  ready ;     and  with  action  prompt 

They  cast  aside  the  Gypsy's  wandering  tomb, 

And  fenced  the  space  from  curious  Moors  who  pressed 

To  see  Chief  Zarca's  coffin  as  it  lay. 

They  raised  it  slowly,  holding  it  aloft 

On  shoulders  proud  to  bear  the  heavy  load. 


282 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Bound  on  the  coffin  lay  the  chieftain's  arms, 
His  G-ypsy  garments  and  his  coat  of  mail. 
Fedalma  saw  the  burden  lifted  high, 
And  then  descending  followed.    All  was  still. 
The  Moors  aloof  could  hear  the  struggling  steps 
Beneath  the  lowered  burden  at  the  boat,  — 
The  struggling  calls  subdued,  till  safe  released 
It  lay  within,  the  space  around  it  filled 
By  black-haired  Gypsies.    Then  Fedalma  stepped 
From  off  the  shore  and  saw  it  flee  away,  — 
The  land  that  bred  her  helping  the  resolve 
Which  exiled  her  forever. 

It  was  night 
Before  the  ships  weighed  anchor  and  gave  sail : 
Fresh  Night  emergent  in  her  clearness,  lit 
By  the  large  crescent  moon,  with  Hesperus 
And  those  great  stars  that  lead  the_eager  host. 
Fedalma  stood  and  watched  the  little  bark 
Lying  jet-black  upon  moon-whitened  waves. 
Silva  was  standing  too.    He  too  divined 
A  steadfast  form  that  held  him  with  its  thought, 
And  eyes  that  sought  him  vanishing :  he  saw 
The  waters  widen  slowly,  till  at  last 
Straining  he  gazed  and  knew  not  if  he  gazed 
On  aught  but  blackness  overhung  by  stars.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


WHEN  Cain  was  driven  from  Jehovah's  land 
He  wandered  eastward^  seeking  some  far  strand 
Ruled  by  kind  gods  who  asked  no  offerings 
Save  pure  field-fruits,  as  aromatic  things, 
To  feed  the  subtler  sense  of  frames  divine 
That  lived  on  fragrance  for  their  food  and  wine : 
Wild  joyous  gods,  who  winked  at  faults  and  folly, 
And  could  be  pitiful  and  melancholy. 
He  never  had  a  doubt  that  such  gods  were ; 
He  looked  within,  and  saw  them  mirrored  there. 
Some  think  he  came  at  last  to  Tartary, 
And  some  to  Ind ;  but,  howsoe'er  it  be. 
His  staff  he  planted  where  sweet  waters  ran, 
And  in  that  home  of  Cain  the  Arts  began. 

Man's  life  was  spacious  in  the  early  world  : 
It  paused,  like  some  slow  ship  with  sail  unfurled 
Waiting  in  seas  by  scarce  a  wavelet  curled ; 
Beheld  the  slow  star-paces  of  the  skies. 
And  grew  from  strength  to  strength  through  centuries  5 
Saw  infant  trees  fill  out  their  giant  limbs. 
And  heard  a  thousand  times  the  sweet  bird's  marriage 
hymns. 

In  Cain's  young  city  none  had  heard  of  Death 
Save  him,  the  founder  ;  and  it  was  his  faith 
That  here,  away  from  harsh  J ehovah's  law, 
Man  was  immortal,  since  no  halt  or  flaw 
In  Cain's  own  frame  betrayed  six  hundred  years, 


284  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


But  dark  as  pines  that  autumn  never  sears 
His  locks  thronged  backward  as  he  ran,  his  frame 
Rose  like  the  orbed  sun  each  morn  the  same, 
Lake-mirrored  to  his  gaze  ;  and  that  red  brand, 
The  scorching  impress  of  Jehovah's  hand, 
Was  still  clear-edged  to  his  unwearied  eye, 
Its  secret  firm  in  time-fraught  memory. 
He  said,  "  My  happy  offspring  shall  not  know 
That  the  red  life  from  out  a  man  may  flow 
When  smitten  by  his  brother.'^    True,  his  race 
Bore  each  one  stamped  upon  his  new-born  face 
A  copy  of  the  brand  no  whit  less  clear ; 
But  every  mother  held  that  little  copy  dear. 

Thus  generations  in  glad  idlesse  throve, 
Nor  hunted  prey,  nor  with  each  other  strove  ; 
For  clearest  springs  were  plenteous  in  the  land. 
And  gourds  for  cups ;  the  ripe  fruits  sought  the  hand. 
Bending  the  laden  boughs  with  fragrant  gold ; 
And  for  their  roofs  and  garments  wealth  untold 
Lay  everywhere  in  grasses  and  broad  leaves : 
They  labored  gently,  as  a  maid  who  weaves 
Her  hair  in  mimic  mats,  and  pauses  oft 
And  strokes  across  her  palm  the  tresses  soft, 
Then  peeps  to  watch  the  poised  butterfly. 
Or  little  burdened  ants  that  homeward  hie. 
Time  was  but  leisure  to  their  lingering  thought, 
There  was  no  need  for  haste  to  finish  aught ; 
But  sweet  beginnings  were  repeated  still 
Like  infant  babblings  that  no  task  fulfil ; 
For  love,  that  loved  not  change,  constrained  the  simple 
will. 

Till,  hurling  stones  in  mere  athletic  joy. 
Strong  Lamech  struck  and  killed  his  fairest  boy, 
And  tried  to  wake  him  with  the  tenderest  cries, 


THE  LEGE^^D  OF  JUBAL. 


And  fetched  and  held  before  the  glazed  eyes 

The  things  they  best  had  loved  to  look  upon ; 

But  never  glance  or  smile  or  sigh  he  won. 

The  generations  stood  around  those  twain 

Helplessly  gazing^  till  their  father  Cain 

Parted  the  press,  and  said,  "  He  will  not  wake ; 

This  is  the  endless  sleep,  and  we  must  make 

A  bed  deep  down  for  him  beneath  the  sod ; 

For  know,  my  sons,  there  is  a  mighty  God 

Angry  with  all  man's  race,  but  most  with  me. 

I  fled  from  out  His  land  in  vain  !  —  't  is  He 

Who  came  and  slew  the  lad,  for  He  has  found 

This  home  of  ours,  and  we  shall  all  be  bound 

By  the  harsh  bands  of  His  most  cruel  will. 

Which  any  moment  may  some  dear  one  kill. 

Nay,  though  we  live  for  countless  moons,  at  last 

We  and  all  ours  shall  die  like  summers  past. 

This  is  Jehovah's  will,  and  He  is  strong ; 

I  thought  the  way  I  travelled  was  too  long 

For  Him  to  follow  me  :  my  thought  was  vain  ! 

He  walks  unseen,  but  leaves  a  track  of  pain. 

Pale  Death  His  footprint  is,  and  He  will  come  again ! 

And  a  new  spirit  from  that  hour  came  o'er 

The  race  of  Cain :  soft  idlesse  was  no  more, 

But  even  the  sunshine  had  a  heart  of  care. 

Smiling  with  hidden  dread  —  a  mother  fair 

Who  folding  to  her  breast  a  dying  child 

Beams  with  feigned  joy  that  but  makes  sadness  mild. 

Death  was  now  lord  of  Life,  and  at  his  word 

Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred, 

With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 

Throbbing  through  all  things  to  some  unknown  close. 

Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 

And  Work  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 


286  POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


It  seemed  the  light  was  never  loved  before, 
ISTow  each  man  said,        will  go  and  come  no  more.'' 
No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook, 
No  form,  no  shadow,  but  new  dearness  took 
From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end ; 
And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 
Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bliss, 
Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 
Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine, 
That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 
Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves, 
And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves. 
No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  all ; 
Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coming  at  each  call. 
With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand. 
And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  responsive  hand. 

Thus  to  Cain's  race  death  was  tear-watered  seed 

Of  various  life  and  action-shaping  need. 

But  chief  the  sons  of  Lamech  felt  the  stings 

Of  new  ambition,  and  the  force  that  springs 

In  passion  beating  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

They  said,  "  There  comes  a  night  when  all  too  late 

The  mind  shall  long  to  prompt  the  achieving  hand. 

The  eager  thought  behind  closed  portals  stand. 

And  the  last  wishes  to  the  mute  lips  press 

Buried  ere  death  in  silent  helplessness. 

Then  while  the  soul  its  way  with  sound  can  cleave. 

And  while  the  arm  is  strong  to  strike  and  heave, 

Let  soul  and  arm  give  shape  that  will  abide 

And  rule  above  our  graves,  and  power  divide 

With  that  great  god  of  day,  whose  rays  must  bend 

As  we  shall  make  the  moving  shadows  tend. 

Come,  let  us  fashion  acts  that  are  to  be, 

When  we  shall  lie  in  darkness  silently, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  287 


As  our  young  brother  dotli^  whom  yet  we  see 
Fallen  and  slain,  but  reigning  in  our  will 
By  that  one  image  of  him  pale  and  still." 

For  Lamech's  sons  were  heroes  of  their  race : 

Jabal,  the  eldest,  bore  upon  his  face 

The  look  of  that  calm  river-god,  the  Nile, 

Mildly  secure  in  power  that  needs  not  guile. 

But  Tubal-Cain  was  restless  as  the  fire 

That  glows  and  spreads  and  leaps  from  high  to  higher 

Where'er  is  aught  to  seize  or  to  subdue ; 

Strong  as  a  storm  he  lifted  or  overthrew, 

His  urgent  limbs  like  rounded  granite  grew^ 

Such  granite  as  the  plunging  torrent  wears 

And  roaring  rolls  around  through  countless  years. 

But  strength  that  still  on  movement  must  be  fed, 

Inspiring  thought  of  change,  devices  bred. 

And  urged  his  mind  through  earth  and  air  to  rove 

For  force  that  he  could  conquer  if  he  strove. 

For  lurking  forms  that  might  new  tasks  fulfil 

And  yield  unwilling  to  his  stronger  will. 

Such  Tubal-Cain.    But  Jubal  had  a  frame 

Fashioned  to  finer  senses,  which  became 

A  yearning  for  some  hidden  soul  of  things. 

Some  outward  touch  complete  on  inner  springs 

That  vaguely  moving  bred  a  lonely  pain, 

A  want  that  did  but  stronger  grow  with  gain 

Of  all  good  else,  as  spirits  might  be  sad 

For  lack  of  speech  to  tell  us  they  are  glad. 

Now  Jabal  learned  to  tame  the  lowing  kine. 

And  from  their  udders  drew  the  snow-white  wine 

That  stirs  the  innocent  joy,  and  makes  the  stream 

Of  elemental  life  with  fulness  teem ; 

The  star-browed  calves  he  nursed  with  feeding  hand, 


288  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


And  sheltered  them,  till  all  the  little  band 

Stood  mustered  gazing  at  the  sunset  way 

Whence  he  would  come  with  store  at  close  of  day. 

He  soothed  the  silly  sheep  with  friendly  tone 

And  reared  their  staggering  lambs  that,  older  grown, 

Followed  his  steps  with  sense-taught  memory ; 

Till  he,  their  shepherd,  could  their  leader  be 

And  guide  them  through  the  pastures  as  he  would, 

With  sway  that  grew  from  ministry  of  good. 

He  spread  his  tents  upon  the  grassy  plain 

Which,  eastward  widening  like  the  open  main, 

Showed  the  first  whiteness  'neath  the  morning  star; 

Near  him  his  sister,  deft,  as  women  are. 

Plied  her  quick  skill  in  sequence  to  his  thought 

Till  the  hid  treasures  of  the  milk  she  caught 

Revealed  like  pollen  'mid  the  petals  white, 

The  golden  pollen,  virgin  to  the  light. 

Even  the  she-wolf  with  young,  on  rapine  bent, 

He  caught  and  tethered  in  his  mat-walled  tent, 

And  cherished  all  her  little  sharp-nosed  young 

Till  the  small  race  with  hope  and  terror  clung 

About  his  footsteps,  till  each  new-reared  brood, 

Remoter  from  the  memories  of  the  wood. 

More  glad  discerned  their  common  home  with  man. 

This  was  the  work  of  Jabal:  he  began 

The  pastoral  life,  and,  sire  of  joys  to  be, 

Spread  the  sweet  ties  that  bind  the  family 

O'er  dear  dumb  souls  that  thrilled  at  man's  caress, 

And  shared  his  pains  with  patient  helpfulness. 

But  Tubal-Cain  had  caught  and  yoked  the  fire. 
Yoked  it  with  stones  that  bent  the  flaming  spire 
And  made  it  roar  in  prisoned  servitude 
Within  the  furnace,  till  with  force  subdued 
It  changed  all  forms  he  willed  to  work  upon, 


THE  LEGEISTD  OF  JUBAL. 


289 


Till  hard  from  soft,  and  soft  from  hard,  he  won. 
The  pliant  clay  he  moulded  as  he  would, 
And  laughed  with  joy  when  ^mid  the  heat  it  stood 
Shaped  as  his  hand  had  chosen,  while  the  mass 
That  from  his  hold,  dark,  obstinate,  would  pass, 
He  drew  all  glowing  from  the  busy  heat. 
All  breathing  as  with  life  that  he  could  beat 
With  thundering  hammer,  making  it  obey 
His  will  creative,  like  the  pale  soft  clay. 
Each  day  he  wrought  and  better  than  he  planned, 
Shape  breeding  shape  beneath  his  restless  hand. 
(The  soul  without  still  helps  the  soul  within. 
And  its  deft  magic  ends  what  we  begin.) 
Nay,  in  his  dreams  his  hammer  he  would  wield 
And  seem  to  see  a  myriad  types  revealed. 
Then  spring  with  wondering  triumphant  cry, 
And,  lest  the  inspiring  vision  should  go  by, 
Would  rush  to  labor  with  that  plastic  zeal 
Which  all  the  passion  of  our  life  can  steal 
For  force  to  work  with.    Each  day  saw  the  birth 
Of  various  forms  which,  flung  upon  the  earth, 
Seemed  harmless  toys  to  cheat  the  exacting  hour, 
But  were  as  seeds  instinct  with  hidden  power. 
The  axe,  the  club,  the  spiked  wheel,  the  chain, 
Held  silently  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  pain  ; 
And  near  them  latent  lay  in  share  and  spade. 
In  the  strong  bar,  the  saw,  and  deep-curved  blade, 
Glad  voices  of  the  hearth  and  harvest-home, 
The  social  good,  and  all  earth's  joy  to  come. 
Thus  to  mixed  ends  wrought  Tubal ;  and  they  say, 
Some  things  he  made  have  lasted  to  this  day ; 
As,  thirty  silver  pieces  that  were  found 
By  Noah's  children  buried  in  the  ground. 
He  made  them  from  mere  hunger  of  device, 
Those  small  white  disks  ;  but  they  became  the  price 
19 


290  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  traitor  Judas  sold  his  Master  for ; 
And  men  still  handling  them  in  peace  and  war 
Catch  foul  disease,  that  comes  as  appetite, 
And  lurks  and  clings  as  withering,  damning  blight. 
But  Tubal-Cain  wot  not  of  treachery, 
Nor  greedy  lust,  nor  any  ill  to  be. 
Save  the  one  ill  of  sinking  into  naught, 
Banished  from  action  and  act-shaping  thought. 
He  was  the  sire  of  swift-transforming  skill, 
Which  arms  for  conquest  man's  ambitious  will ; 
And  round  him  gladly,  as  his  hammer  rung. 
Gathered  the  elders  and  the  growing  young : 
These  handled  vaguely  and  those  plied  the  tools. 
Till,  happy  chance  begetting  conscious  rules, 
The  home  of  Cain  with  industry  was  rife, 
And  glimpses  of  a  strong  persistent  life. 
Panting  through  generations  as  one  breath, 
And  filling  with  its  soul  the  blank  of  death. 

Jubal,  too,  watched  the  hammer,  till  his  eyes, 

No  longer  following  its  fall  or  rise. 

Seemed  glad  with  something  that  they  could  not  see. 

But  only  listened  to  —  some  melody. 

Wherein  dumb  longings  inward  speech  had  found, 

Won  from  the  common  store  of  struggling  sound. 

Then,  as  the  metal  shapes  more  various  grew. 

And,  hurled  upon  each  other,  resonance  drew. 

Each  gave  new  tones,  the  revelations  dim 

Of  some  external  soul  that  spoke  for  him : 

The  hollow  vessel's  clang,  the  clash,  the  boom, 

Like  light  that  makes  wide  spiritual  room 

And  skyey  spaces  in  the  spaceless  thought. 

To  Jubal  such  enlarged  passion  brought 

That  love,  hope,  rage,  and  all  experience. 

Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


291 


Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries 

That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 

Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 

Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man's  brief  age. 

Then  with  such  blissful  trouble  and  glad  care 

For  growth  within  unborn  as  mothers  bear, 

To  the  far  woods  he  wandered,  listening, 

And  heard  the  birds  their  little  stories  sing 

In  notes  whose  rise  and  fall  seemed  melted  speech  — 

Melted  with  tears,  smiles,  glances  —  that  can  reach 

More  quickly  through  our  frame's  deep-winding  night, 

And  without  thought  raise  thought's  best  fruit,  delight. 

Pondering,  he  sought  his  home  again  and  heard 

The  fluctuant  changes  of  the  spoken  word : 

The  deep  remonstrance  and  the  argued  want, 

Insistent  first  in  close  monotonous  chant, 

Next  leaping  upward  to  defiant  stand 

Or  downward  beating  like  the  resolute  hand ; 

The  mother's  call,  the  children's  answering  cry. 

The  laugh's  light  cataract  tumbling  from  on  high ; 

The  suasive  repetitions  Jabal  taught. 

That  timid  browsing  cattle  homeward  brought ; 

The  clear-winged  fugue  of  echoes  vanishing ; 

And  through  them  all  the  hammer's  rhythmic  ring. 

Jubal  sat  lonely,  all  around  was  dim. 

Yet  his  face  glowed  with  light  revealed  to  him : 

For  as  the  delicate  stream  of  odor  wakes 

The  thought-wed  sentience  and  some  image  makes 

From  out  the  mingled  fragments  of  the  past. 

Finely  compact  in  wholeness  that  will  last. 

So  streamed  as  from  the  body  of  each  sound 

Subtler  pulsations,  swift  as  warmth,  which  found 

All  prisoned  germs  and  all  their  powers  unbound, 

Till  thought  self-luminous  flamed  from  memory, 


292  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


And  in  creative  vision  wandered  free. 

Then  Jubal,  standing^  rapturous  arms  upraised, 

And  on  the  dark  with  eager  eyes  he  gazed, 

As  had  some  manifested  god  been  there. 

It  was  his  thought  he  saw :  the  presence  fair 

Of  unachieved  achievement,  the  high  task. 

The  struggling  unborn  spirit  that  doth  ask 

With  irresistible  cry  for  blood  and  breath, 

Till  feeding  its  great  life  we  sink  in  death. 

He  said,    Were  now  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 

That  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise. 

Those  groans  of  some  great  travail  heard  from  far, 

Some  power  at  wrestle  with  the  things  that  are. 

Those  sounds  which  vary  with  the  varying  form 

Of  clay  and  metal,  and  in  sightless  swarm 

Pill  the  wide  space  with  tremors :  were  these  wed 

To  human  voices  with  such  passion  fed 

As  does  put  glimmer  in  our  common  speech, 

But  might  flame  out  in  tones  whose  changing  reach, 

Surpassing  meagre  need,  informs  the  sense 

With  fuller  union,  finer  difference  — 

Were  this  great  vision,  now  obscurely  bright 

As  morning  hills  that  melt  in  new-poured  light. 

Wrought  into  solid  form  and  living  sound. 

Moving  with  ordered  throb  and  sure  rebound. 

Then  —  Nay,  I  Jubal  will  that  work  begin ! 

The  generations  of  our  race  shall  win 

New  life,  that  grows  from  out  the  heart  of  this. 

As  spring  from  winter,  or  as  lovers'  bliss 

From  out  the  dull  unknown  of  unwaked  energies.'^ 

Thus  he  resolved,  and  in  the  soul-fed  light 
Of  coming  ages  waited  through  the  night. 
Watching  for  that  near  dawn  whose  chiller  ray 


"  Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


Showed  but  the  unchanged  world  of  yesterday ; 
Where  all  the  order  of  his  dream  divine 
Lay  like  Olympian  forms  within  the  mine ; 
Where  fervor  that  could  fill  the  earthly  round 
With  thronged  joys  of  form-begotten  sound 
Must  shrink  intense  within  the  patient  power 
That  lonely  labors  through  the  niggard  hour. 
Such  patience  have  the  heroes  who  begin^ 
Sailing  the  first  to  lands  which  others  win. 
Jubal  must  dare  as  great  beginners  dare^ 
Strike  form's  first  way  in  matter  rude  and  bare, 
And,  yearning  vaguely  toward  the  plenteous  quire 
Of  the  world's  harvest,  make  one  poor  small  lyre. 
He  made  it,  and  from  out  its  measured  frame 
Drew  the  harmonic  soul,  whose  answers  came 
With  guidance  sweet  and  lessons  of  delight 
Teaching  to  ear  and  hand  the  blissful  Right, 
Where  strictest  law  is  gladness  to  the  sense 
And  all  desire  bends  toward  obedience. 

Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song  — 

The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 

As  radiance  streams  from  smallest  things  that  burn, 

Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 

And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 

In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  with  lip. 

Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 

His  winged  song  ;  then  with  adoring  pride 

And  bridegroom's  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride. 

He  said,    This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 

This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound. 

Shall  forthwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race 

And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space  : 

The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do. 

And  I  will  teach  our  youth  with  skill  to  woo 


294  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  secret  will, 

Its  fine  division  of  the  good  and  ill. 

So  shall  men  call  me  sire  of  harmony, 

And  where  great  Song  is,  there  my  life  shall  be." 

Thus  glorying  as  a  god  beneficent. 

Forth  from  his  solitary  joy  he  went 

To  bless  mankind.    It  was  at  evening. 

When  shadows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 

When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine 

And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  decline. 

The  fruit-trees  wore  their  studded  coronal, 

Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival. 

Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent  — 

Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  in  sweet  warm  radiance  blent. 

The  tribe  of  Cain  was  resting  on  the  ground. 

The  various  ages  wreathed  in  one  broad  round. 

Here  lay,  while  children  peeped  o'er  his  huge  thighs, 

The  sinewy  man  embrowned  by  centuries ; 

Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 

Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o'er  the  throng 

Of  young  lithe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too  — 

Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew, 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 

Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh, 

And  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circling  went. 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  father  Cain 

Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jabal  sat  climbed  on  by  a  playful  ring 

Of  children,  lambs,  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling, 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dimpled  feet, 

Made  barks,  bleats,  laughs,  in  pretty  hubbub  meet. 


THE  LEGE^^^D  OF  JUBAL. 


295 


But  Tubal's  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday. 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast, 

For  of  all  hardship  work  he  counted  least ; 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 

Made  his  repose  more  potent  action  seem. 

Yet  with  health's  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent. 

The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent. 

The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power. 

Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being's  flower. 

After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes. 

The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 

Then  from  the  east,  with  glory  on  his  head 

Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn-waves  spread. 

Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre :  there  'mid  the  throng, 

Where  the  blank  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song. 

Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 

And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob^ 

Exult  and  cry,  and  search  the  inmost  deep 

Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleep. 

Joy  took  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul. 

Embracing  them  in  one  entranced  whole. 

Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends. 

As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creature  sends 

Or  rage  or  tenderness  ;  more  plenteous  life 

Here  breeding  dread,  and  there  a  fiercer  strife. 

He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries, 

Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees. 

In  hoary  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze. 

Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  days 

Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 

That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one ; 

Felt  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past. 

The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  vast, 


296  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  in  that  heaven  wept.    But  younger  limbs 

Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which  swims 

In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays, 

Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 

And  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  influence, 

Sweetly  overcharging  the  delighted  sense. 

Flowed  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spread 

Enlarging,  till  in  tidal  union  led 

The  youths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed, 

By  grace-inspiring  melody  possessed, 

Kose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 

Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  many  a  melting  curve 

Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm : 

Then  Jubal  poured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 

The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance, 

The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countenance. 

Till  all  the  gazing  elders  rose  and  stood 

With  glad  yet  awful  shock  of  that  mysterious  good. 

Even  Tubal  caught  the  sound,  and  wondering  came, 

Urging  his  sooty  bulk  like  smoke-wrapt  flame 

Till  he  could  see  his  brother  with  the  lyre, 

The  work  for  which  he  lent  his  furnace-fire 

And  diligent  hammer,  witting  naught  of  this  — 

This  power  in  metal  shape  which  made  strange  bliss, 

Entering  within  him  like  a  dream  full-fraught 

With  new  creations  finished  in  a  thought. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  but  music  still  was  there, 
And  when  this  ceased,  still  triumph  filled  the  air : 
It  seemed  the  stars  were  shining  with  delight 
And  that  no  night  was  ever  like  this  night. 
All  clung  with  praise  to  Jubal :  some  besought 
That  he  would  teach  them  his  new  skill ;  some  caught, 
Swiftly  as  smiles  are  caught  in  looks  that  meet, 
The  tone's  melodic  change  and  rhythmic  beat : 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  297 


T  was  easy  following  where  invention  trod  — 
All  eyes  can  see  wlien  light  flows  out  from  God. 

And  thus  did  Jubal  to  his  race  reveal 

Music  their  larger  soul^  where  woe  and  weal 

Filling  the  resonant  chords,  the  song,  the  dance, 

Moved  with  a  wider-winged  utterance. 

Now  many  a  lyre  was  fashioned,  many  a  song 

Eaised  echoes  new,  old  echoes  to  prolong. 

Till  things  of  JubaPs  making  were  so  rife, 

Hearing  myself,''  he  said,  "  hems  in  my  life. 
And  I  will  get  me  to  some  far-off  land, 
Where  higher  mountains  under  heaven  stand 
And  touch  the  blue  at  rising  of  the  stars, 
Whose  song  they  hear  where  no  rough  mingling  mars 
The  great  clear  voices.    Such  lands  there  must  be. 
Where  varying  forms  make  varying  symphony  — 
Where  other  thunders  roll  amid  the  hills, 
Some  mightier  wind  a  mightier  forest  fills 
With  other  strains  through  other-shapen  boughs  ; 
Where  bees  and  birds  and  beasts  that  hunt  or  browse 
Will  teach  me  songs  I  know  not.    Listening  there, 
My  life  shall  grow  like  trees  both  tall  and  fair 
That  rise  and  spread  and  bloom  toward  fuller  fruit  each 
year.'' 

He  took  a  raft,  and  travelled  with  the  stream 
Southward  for  many  a  league,  till  he  might  deem 
He  saw  at  last  the  pillars  of  the  sky. 
Beholding  mountains  whose  white  majesty 
Eushed  through  him  as  new  awe,  and  made  new  song 
That  swept  with  fuller  wave  the  chords  along. 
Weighting  his  voice  with  deep  religious  chime, 
The  iteration  of  slow  chant  sublime. 
It  was  the  region  long  inhabited 


298  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


By  all  the  race  of  Seth  ;  and  Jubal  said : 
"  Here  have  I  found  my  thirsty  soul's  desire, 
Eastward  the  hills  touch  heaven,  and  evening's  fire 
Flames  through  deep  waters ;  I  will  take  my  rest, 
And  feed  anew  from  my  great  mother's  breast, 
The  sky-clasped  Earth,  whose  voices  nurture  me 
As  the  flowers'  sweetness  doth  the  honey-bee.'^ 
He  lingered  wandering  for  many  an  age, 
And,  sowing  music,  made  high  heritage 
For  generations  far  beyond  the  Flood  — 
For  the  poor  late-begotten  human  brood 
Born  to  life's  weary  brevity  and  perilous  good. 

And  ever  as  he  travelled  he  would  climb 

The  farthest  mountain,  yet  the  heavenly  chime, 

The  mighty  tolling  of  the  far-off  spheres 

Beating  their  pathway,  never  touched  his  ears. 

But  wheresoe'er  he  rose  the  heavens  rose, 

And  the  far-gazing  mountain  could  disclose 

Naught  but  a  wider  earth ;  until  one  height 

Showed  him  the  ocean  stretched  in  liquid  light, 

And  he  could  hear  its  multitudinous  roar. 

Its  plunge  and  hiss  upon  the  pebbled  shore  : 

Then  Jubal  silent  sat,  and  touched  his  lyre  no  more. 

He  thought,  "  The  world  is  great,  but  I  am  weak, 
And  where  the  sky  bends  is  no  solid  peak 
To  give  me  footing,  but  instead,  this  main  — 
Myriads  of  maddened  horses  thundering  o'er  the  plain. 

"  New  voices  come  to  me  where'er  I  roam, 
My  heart  too  widens  with  its  widening  home : 
But  song  grows  weaker,  and  the  heart  must  break 
For  lack  of  voice,  or  fingers  that  can  wake 
The  lyre's  full  answer  ;  nay,  its  chords  were  all 
Too  few  to  meet  the  growing  spirit's  call. 


THE  LEGE^^D  OF  JUBAL. 


299 


The  former  songs  seem  little^  yet  no  more 
Can  soul,  hand,  voice,  with  interchanging  lore 
Tell  what  the  earth  is  saying  unto  me : 
The  secret  is  too  great,  I  hear  confusedly. 

"  No  farther  will  I  travel :  once  again 

My  brethren  I  will  see,  and  that  fair  plain 

Where  I  and  Song  were  born.    There  fresh-voiced  youth 

Will  pour  my  strains  with  all  the  early  truth 

Which  now  abides  not  in  my  voice  and  hands. 

But  only  in  the  soul,  the  will  that  stands 

Helpless  to  move.    My  tribo  remembering 

Will  cry  ^  ^T  is  he  !  ^  and  run  to  greet  me,  welcoming." 

The  way  was  weary.    Many  a  date-palm  grew, 

And  shook  out  clustered  gold  against  the  blue, 

While  Jubal,  guided  by  the  steadfast  spheres. 

Sought  the  dear  home  of  those  first  eager  years, 

When,  with  fresh  vision  fed,  the  fuller  will 

Took  living  outward  shape  in  pliant  skill ; 

For  still  he  hoped  to  find  the  former  things, 

And  the  warm  gladness  recognition  brings. 

His  footsteps  erred  among  the  mazy  woods 

And  long  illusive  sameness  of  the  floods. 

Winding  and  wandering.    Through  far  regions,  strange 

With  Gentile  homes  and  faces,  did  he  range. 

And  left  his  music  in  their  memory. 

And  left  at  last,  when  naught  besides  would  free 

His  homeward  steps  from  clinging  hands  and  cries, 

The  ancient  lyre.    And  now  in  ignorant  eyes 

No  sign  remained  of  Jubal,  Lamech's  son. 

That  mortal  frame  wherein  was  first  begun 

The  immortal  life  of  song.    His  withered  brow 

Pressed  over  eyes  that  held  no  lightning  now. 

His  locks  streamed  whiteness  on  the  hurrying  air, 


300  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  unresting  soul  had  worn  itself  quite  bare 
Of  beauteous  token,  as  the  outworn  might 
Of  oaks  slow  dying,  gaunt  in  summer's  light. 
His  full  deep  voice  toward  thinnest  treble  ran : 
He  was  the  rune-writ  story  of  a  man. 

And  so  at  last  he  neared  the  well-known  land, 
Could  see  the  hills  in  ancient  order  stand 
With  friendly  faces  whose  familiar  gaze 
Looked  through  the  sunshine  of  his  childish  days ; 
Knew  the  deep-shadowed  folds  of  hanging  woods, 
And  seemed  to  see  the  selfsame  insect  broods 
Whirling  and  quivering  o'er  the  flowers  —  to  hear 
The  selfsame  cuckoo  making  distance  near. 
Yea;  the  dear  Earth,  with  mother's  constancy. 
Met  and  embraced  him,  and  said,    Thou  art  he  ! 
This  was  thy  cradle,  here  my  breast  was  thine, 
Where  feeding,  thou  didst  all  thy  life  entwine 
With  my  sky-wedded  life  in  heritage  divine.'^ 

But  wending  ever  through  the  watered  plain, 

Firm  not  to  rest  save  in  the  home  of  Cain, 

He  saw  dread  Change,  with  dubious  face  and  cold 

That  never  kept  a  welcome  for  the  old. 

Like  some  strange  heir  upon  the  hearth,  arise 

Saying,  "  This  home  is  mine."    He  thought  his  eyes 

Mocked  all  deep  memories,  as  things  new  made. 

Usurping  sense,  make  old  things  shrink  and  fade 

And  seem  ashamed  to  meet  the  staring  day. 

His  memory  saw  a  small  foot-trodden  way. 

His  eyes  a  broad  far-stretching  paven  road 

Bordered  with  many  a  tomb  and  fair  abode ; 

The  little  city  that  once  nestled  low 

As  buzzing  groups  about  some  central  glow. 

Spread  like  a  murmuring  crowd  o'er  plain  and  steep, 

Or  monster  huge  in  heavy-breathing  sleep. 


THE  LEGE^s^D  OF  JUBAL. 


301 


His  heart  grew  faint,  and  tremblingly  he  sank 

Close  by  the  wayside  on  a  weed-grown  bank, 

Not  far  from  where  a  new-raised  temple  stood, 

Sky-roofed,  and  fragrant  with  wrought  cedar  woodo 

The  morning  sun  was  high ;  his  rays  fell  hot 

On  this  hap-chosen,  dusty,  common  spot. 

On  the  dry-withered  grass  and  withered  man : 

That  wondrous  frame  where  melody  began 

Lay  as  a  tomb  defaced  that  no  eye  cared  to  scan. 

But  while  he  sank  far  music  reached  his  ear. 
He  listened  until  wonder  silenced  fear 
And  gladness  wonder ;  for  the  broadening  stream 
Of  sound  advancing  was  his  early  dream. 
Brought  like  fulfilment  of  forgotten  prayer ; 
As  if  his  soul,  breathed  out  upon  the  air. 
Had  held  the  invisible  seeds  of  harmony 
Quick  with  the  various  strains  of  life  to  be. 
He  listened :  the  sweet  mingled  difference 
With  charm  alternate  took  the  meeting  sense ; 
Then  bursting  like  some  shield-broad  lily  red, 
Sudden  and  near  the  trumpet's  notes  outspread, 
And  soon  his  eyes  could  see  the  metal  flower, 
Shining  upturned,  out  on  the  morning  pour 
Its  incense  audible ;  could  see  a  train 
Prom  out  the  street  slow-winding  on  the  plain 
With  lyres  and  cymbals,  flutes  and  psalteries, 
While  men,  youths,  maids,  in  concert  sang  to  these 
With  various  throat,  or  in  succession  poured, 
Or  in  full  volume  mingled.    But  one  word 
Ruled  each  recurrent  rise  and  answering  fall, 
As  when  the  multitudes  adoring  call 
On  some  great  name  divine,  their  common  soul, 
The  common  need,  love,  joy,  that  knits  them  in  one 
whole. 


302 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  word  was    Jubal !      .  .  "  Jubal "  filled  tlie  air 
And  seemed  to  ride  aloft,  a  spirit  there, 
Creator  of  the  quire,  the  full-fraught  strain 
That  grateful  rolled  itself  to  him  again. 
The  aged  man  adust  upon  the  bank  — 
"Whom  no  eye  saw;  —  at  first  with  rapture  drank 
The  bliss  of  music,  then,  with  swelling  heart, 
Eelt,  this  was  his  own  being's  greater  part, 
The  universal  joy  once  born  in  him. 
But  when  the  train,  with  living  face  and  limb 
And  vocal  breath,  came  nearer  and  more  near, 
The  longing  grew  that  they  should  hold  him  dear ; 
Him,  Lamech's  son,  whom  all  their  fathers  knew. 
The  breathing  Jubal  —  him,  to  whom  their  love  was  due« 
All  was  forgotten  but  the  burning  need 
To  claim  his  fuller  self,  to  claim  the  deed 
That  lived  away  from  him,  and  grew  apart, 
While  he  as  from  a  tomb,  with  lonely  heart. 
Warmed  by  no  meeting  glance,  no  hand  that  pressed. 
Lay  chill  amid  the  life  his  life  had  blessed. 
What  though  his  song  should  spread  from  man's  small 
race 

Out  through  the  myriad  worlds  that  people  space, 
And  make  the  heavens  one  joy-diffusing  quire  ?  — 
Still  'mid  that  vast  would  throb  the  keen  desire 
Of  this  poor  aged  flesh,  this  eventide. 
This  twilight  soon  in  darkness  to  subside, 
This  little  pulse  of  self  that,  having  glowed 
Through  thrice  three  centuries,  and  divinely  strowed 
The  light  of  music  through  the  vague  of  sound, 
Ached  with  its  smallness  still  in  good  that  had  no 
bound. 

Eor  no  eye  saw  him,  while  with  loving  pride 
Each  voice  with  each  in  praise  of  Jubal  vied. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


Must  lie  in  conscious  trance,  dumb,  helpless  lie 
While  all  that  ardent  kindred  passed  him  by  ? 
His  flesh  cried  out  to  live  with  living  men 
And  join  that  soul  which  to  the  inward  ken 
Of  all  the  hymning  train  was  present  there. 
Strong  passion's  daring  sees  not  aught  to  dare  : 
The  frost-locked  starkness  of  his  frame  low-bent, 
His  voice's  penury  of  tones  long  spent, 
He  felt  not ;  all  his  being  leaped  in  flame 
To  meet  his  kindred  as  they  onward  came 
Slackening  and  wheeling  toward  the  temple's  face 
He  rushed  before  them  to  the  glittering  space, 
And,  with  a  strength  that  was  but  strong  desire, 
Cried,  "  I  am  Jubal,  I !  ...  I  made  the  lyre !  " 

The  tones  amid  a  lake  of  silence  fell 

Broken  and  strained,  as  if  a  feeble  bell 

Had  tuneless  pealed  the  triumph  of  a  land 

To  listening  crowds  in  expectation  spanned. 

Sudden  came  showers  of  laughter  on  that  lake ; 

They  spread  along  the  train  from  front  to  wake 

In  one  great  storm  of  merriment,  while  he 

Shrank  doubting  whether  he  could  Jubal  be, 

And  not  a  dream  of  Jubal,  whose  rich  vein 

Of  passionate  music  came  with  that  dream-pain 

Wherein  the  sense  slips  off  from  each  loved  thing 

And  all  appearance  is  mere  vanishing. 

But  ere  the  laughter  died  from  out  the  rear, 

Anger  in  front  saw  profanation  near ; 

Jubal  was  but  a  name  in  each  man's  faith 

Tor  glorious  power  untouched  by  that  slow  death 

Which  creeps  with  creeping  time ;  this  too,  the  sp< 

And  this  the  day,  it  must  be  crime  to  blot. 

Even  with  scoffing  at  a  madman's  lie : 

Jubal  was  not  a  name  to  wed  with  mockery. 


304 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Two  rushed  upon  him  :  two,  the  most  devout 

In  honor  of  great  Jubal,  thrust  him  out, 

And  beat  him  with  their  flutes.    ^T  was  little  need  5 

He  strove  not,  cried  not,  but  with  tottering  speed, 

As  if  the  scorn  and  howls  were  driving  wind 

That  urged  his  body,  serving  so  the  mind 

Which  could  but  shrink  and  yearn,  he  sought  the  screen 

Of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. 

The  immortal  name  of  Jubal  filled  the  sky, 

While  Jubal  lonely  laid  him  down  to  die. 

He  said  within  his  soul,    This  is  the  end  : 

O'er  all  the  earth  to  where  the  heavens  bend 

And  hem  men's  travel,  I  have  breathed  my  soul : 

I  lie  here  now  the  remnant  of  that  whole, 

The  embers  of  a  life,  a  lonely  pain ; 

As  far-off  rivers  to  my  thirst  were  vain. 

So  of  my  mighty  years  naught  comes  to  me  again. 

"  Is  the  day  sinking  ?    Softest  coolness  springs 
From  something  round  me  :  dewy  shadowy  wings 
Enclose  me  all  around  —  no,  not  above  — 
Is  moonlight  there  ?    I  see  a  face  of  love. 
Fair  as  sweet  music  when  my  heart  was  strong : 
Yea  —  art  thou  come  again  to  me,  great  Song  ? 

The  face  bent  over  him  like  silver  night 

In  long-remembered  summers  ;  that  calm  light 

Of  days  which  shine  in  firmaments  of  thought, 

That  past  unchangeable,  from  change  still  wrought. 

And  gentlest  tones  were  with  the  vision  blent : 

He  knew  not  if  that  gaze  the  music  sent, 

Or  music  that  calm  gaze  :  to  hear,  to  see, 

Was  but  one  undivided  ecstasy : 

The  raptured  senses  melted  into  one. 

And  parting  life  a  moment's  freedom  won 


i 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


305 


From  in  and  outer,  as  a  little  child 

Sits  on  a  bank  and  sees  blue  heavens  mild 

Down  in  the  water,  and  forgets  its  limbs, 

And  knoweth  naught  save  the  blue  heaven  that  swims. 

"Jubal,"  the  face  said,  ^^I  am  thy  loved  Past, 
The  soul  that  makes  thee  one  from  first  to  last. 
I  am  the  angel  of  thy  life  and  death, 
Thy  outbreathed  being  drawing  its  last  breath. 
Am  I  not  thine  alone,  a  dear  dead  bride 
Who  blest  thy  lot  above  all  men's  beside  ? 
Thy  bride  whom  thou  wouldst  never  change,  nor  take 
Any  bride  living,  for  that  dead  one's  sake  ? 
Was  I  not  all  thy  yearning  and  delight. 
Thy  chosen  search,  thy  senses'  beauteous  Eight, 
Which  still  had  been  the  hunger  of  thy  frame 
In  central  heaven,  hadst  thou  been  still  the  same  ? 
Wouldst  thou  have  asked  aught  else  from  any  god  — 
Whether  with  gleaming  feet  on  earth  he  trod 
Or  thundered  through  the  skies  —  aught  else  for  share 
Of  mortal  good,  than  in  thy  soul  to  bear 
The  growth  of  song,  and  feel  the  sweet  unrest 
Of  the  world's  spring-tide  in  thy  conscious  breast  ? 
No,  thou  hadst  grasped  thy  lot  with  all  its  pain, 
Nor  loosed  it  any  painless  lot  to  gain 
Where  music's  voice  was  silent ;  for  thy  fate 
Was  human  music's  self  incorporate  : 
Thy  senses'  keenness  and  thy  passionate  strife 
Were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  her  womb  of  life. 
And  greatly  hast  thou  lived,  for  not  alone 
With  hidden  raptures  were  her  secrets  shown, 
Buried  within  thee,  as  the  purple  light 
Of  gems  may  sleep  in  solitary  night ; 
But  thy  expanding  joy  was  still  to  give. 
And  with  the  generous  air  in  song  to  live, 
20 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Feeding  the  wave  of  ever-widening  bliss 

Where  fellowship  means  equal  perfectness. 

And  on  the  mountains  in  thy  wandering 

Thy  feet  were  beautiful  as  blossomed  spring, 

That  turns  the  leafless  wood  to  love's  glad  home, 

For  with  thy  coming  Melody  was  come. 

This  was  thy  lot,  to  feel,  create,  bestow, 

And  that  immeasurable  life  to  know 

From  which  the  fleshly  self  falls  shrivelled,  dead, 

A  seed  primeval  that  has  forests  bred. 

It  is  the  glory  of  the  heritage 

Thy  life  has  left,  that  makes  thy  outcast  age : 

Thy  limbs  shall  lie  dark,  tombless  on  this  sod, 

Because  thou  shinest  in  man's  soul,  a  god. 

Who  found  and  gave  new  passion  and  new  joy 

That  naught  but  Earth's  destruction  can  destroy. 

Thy  gifts  to  give  was  thine  of  men  alone : 

'T  was  but  in  giving  that  thou  couldst  atone 

For  too  much  wealth  amid  their  poverty." 

The  words  seemed  melting  into  symphony, 
The  wings  upbore  him,  and  the  gazing  song 
Was  floating  him  the  heavenly  space  along, 
Where  mighty  harmonies  all  gently  fell 
Through  veiling  vastness,  like  the  far-off  bell. 
Till,  ever  onward  through  the  choral  blue. 
He  heard  more  faintly  and  more  faintly  knew, 
Quitting  mortality,  a  quenched  sun-wave. 
The  All-creating  Presence  for  his  grave. 


1869. 


AGATHA. 


COME  with  me  to  the  mountain,  not  where  rocks 
Soar  harsh  above  the  troops  of  hurrying  pines, 
But  where  the  earth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts 
To  feed  her  children  ;  where  the  generous  hills 
Lift  a  green  isle  betwixt  the  sky  and  plain 
To  keep  some  Old  World  things  aloof  from  change. 
Here  too 't  is  hill  and  hollow :  new-born  streams 
With  sweet  enforcement,  joyously  compelled 
Like  laughing  children,  hurry  down  the  steeps, 
And  make  a  dimpled  chase  athwart  the  stones ; 
Pine  woods  are  black  upon  the  heights,  the  slopes 
Are  green  with  pasture,  and  the  bearded  corn 
Fringes  the  blue  above  the  sudden  ridge : 
A  little  world  whose  round  horizon  cuts 
This  isle  of  hills  with  heaven  for  a  sea, 
Save  in  clear  moments  when  southwestward  gleams 
France  by  the  Ehine,  melting  anon  to  haze. 
The  monks  of  old  chose  here  their  still  retreat, 
And  called  it  by  the  Blessed  Virgin's  name, 
Sancta  Maria,  which  the  peasant's  tongue. 
Speaking  from  out  the  parent's  heart  that  turns 
All  loved  things  into  little  things,  has  made 
Sanct  Margen  —  Holy  little  Mary,  dear 
As  all  the  sweet  home  things  she  smiles  upon, 
The  children  and  the  cows,  the  apple-trees. 
The  cart,  the  plough,  all  named  with  that  caress 
Which  feigns  them  little,  easy  to  be  held, 
Familiar  to  the  eyes  and  hand  and  heart. 
What  though  a  Queen  ?    She  puts  her  crown  away 


308 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  with  her  little  Boy  wears  common  clothes, 

Caring  for  common  wants,  remembering 

That  day  when  good  Saint  Joseph  left  his  work 

To  marry  her  with  humble  trust  sublime. 

The  monks  are  gone,  their  shadows  fall  no  more 

Tall-frocked  and  cowled  athwart  the  evening  fields 

At  milking-time  ;  their  silent  corridors 

Are  turned  to  homes  of  bare-armed,  aproned  men, 

Who  toil  for  wife  and  children.    But  the  bells, 

Pealing  on  high  from  two  quaint  convent  towers, 

Still  ring  the  Catholic  signals,  summoning 

To  grave  remembrance  of  the  larger  life 

That  bears  our  own,  like  perishable  fruit 

Upon  its  heaven-wide  branches.    At  their  sound 

The  shepherd  boy  far  off  upon  the  hill, 

The  workers  with  the  saw  and  at  the  forge, 

The  triple  generation  round  the  hearth  — 

Grandames  and  mothers  and  the  flute-voiced  girls  — 

Fall  on  their  knees  and  send  forth  prayerful  cries 

To  the  kind  Mother  with  the  little  Boy, 

Who  pleads  for  helpless  men  against  the  storm, 

Lightning  and  plagues  and  all  terrific  shapes 

Of  power  supreme. 

Within  the  prettiest  hollow  of  these  hills. 
Just  as  you  enter  it,  upon  the  slope 
Stands  a  low  cottage  neighbored  cheerily 
By  running  water,  which,  at  farthest  end 
Of  the  same  hollow,  turns  a  heavy  mill, 
And  feeds  the  pasture  for  the  miller's  cows, 
Blanchi  and  Nageli,  Veilchen  and  the  rest. 
Matrons  with  faces  as  Griselda  mild, 
Coming  at  call.    And  on  the  farthest  height 
A  little  tower  looks  out  above  the  pines 
Where  mounting  you  will  find  a  sanctuary 
Open  and  still ;  without,  the  silent  crowd 


AGATHA. 


809 


Of  heaven-planted,  incense-mingling  flowers  ; 

Within,  the  altar  where  the  Mother  sits 

'Mid  votive  tablets  hung  from  far-off  years 

By  peasants  succored  in  the  peril  of  fire, 

Eever,  or  flood,  who  thought  that  Mary's  love, 

Willing  but  not  omnipotent,  had  stood 

Between  their  lives  and  that  dread  power  which  slew 

Their  neighbor  at  their  side.    The  chapel  bell 

Will  melt  to  gentlest  music  ere  it  reach 

That  cottage  on  the  slope,  whose  garden  gate 

Has  caught  the  rose-tree  boughs  and  stands  ajar ; 

So  does  the  door,  to  let  the  sunbeams  in  ; 

For  in  the  slanting  sunbeams  angels  come 

And  visit  Agatha  who  dwells  within  — 

Old  Agatha,  whose  cousins  Kate  and  Nell 

Are  housed  by  her  in  Love  and  Duty's  name, 

They  being  feeble,  with  small  withered  wits. 

And  she  believing  that  the  higher  gift 

Was  given  to  be  shared.    So  Agatha 

Shares  her  one  room,  all  neat  on  afternoons, 

As  if  some  memory  were  sacred  there 

And  everything  within  the  four  low  walls 

An  honored  relic. 

One  long  summer's  day 
An  angel  entered  at  the  rose-hung  gate. 
With  skirts  pale  blue,  a  brow  to  quench  the  pearl, 
Hair  soft  and  blonde  as  infants',  plenteous 
As  hers  who  made  the  wavy  lengths  once  speak 
The  grateful  worship  of  a  rescued  soul. 
The  angel  paused  before  the  open  door 
To  give  good  day.      Come  in,"  said  Agatha. 
I  followed  close,  and  watched  and  listened  there. 
The  angel  was  a  lady,  noble,  young, 
Taught  in  all  seemliness  that  fits  a  court. 


310 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


All  lore  that  shapes  the  mind  to  delicate  use. 
Yet  quiet,  lowly,  as  a  meek  white  dove 
That  with  its  presence  teaches  gentleness. 
Men  called  her  Countess  Linda ;  little  girls 
In  Freiburg  town,  orphans  whom  she  caressed, 
Said  Mamma  Linda :  yet  her  years  were  few, 
Her  outward  beauties  all  in  budding  time, 
Her  virtues  the  aroma  of  the  plant 
That  dwells  in  all  its  being,  root,  stem,  leaf, 
And  waits  not  ripeness. 

"  Sit,''  said  Agatha. 
Her  cousins  were  at  work  in  neighboring  homes 
But  yet  she  was  not  lonely ;  all  things  round 
Seemed  filled  with  noiseless  yet  responsive  life. 
As  of  a  child  at  breast  that  gently  clings : 
Not  sunlight  only  or  the  breathing  flowers 
Or  the  swift  shadows  of  the  birds  and  bees, 
But  all  the  household  goods,  which,  polished  fair 
By  hands  that  cherished  them  for  service  done, 
Shone  as  with  glad  content.    The  wooden  beams 
Dark  and  yet  friendly,  easy  to  be  reached, 
Bore  three  white  crosses  for  a  speaking  sign ; 
The  walls  had  little  pictures  hung  a-row. 
Telling  the  stories  of  Saint  Ursula, 
And  Saint  Elizabeth,  the  lowly  queen ; 
And  on  the  bench  that  served  for  table  too. 
Skirting  the  wall  to  save  the  narrow  space. 
There  lay  the  Catholic  books,  inherited 
From  those  old  times  when  printing  still  was  young 
With  stout-limbed  promise,  like  a  sturdy  boy. 
And  in  the  farthest  corner  stood  the  bed 
Where  o'er  the  pillow  hung  two  pictures  wreathed 
With  fresh-plucked  ivy :  one  the  Virgin's  death. 
And  one  her  flowering  tomb,  while  high  above 


AGATHA. 


She  smiling  bends  and  lets  her  girdle  down 
For  ladder  to  the  soul  that  cannot  trust 
In  life  which  outlasts  burial.  Agatha 
Sat  at  her  knitting,  aged,  upright,  slim, 
And  spoke  her  welcome  with  mild  dignity. 
She  kept  the  company  of  kings  and  queens 
And  mitred  saints  who  sat  below  the  feet 
Of  Francis  with  the  ragged  frock  and  wounds ; 
And  Eank  for  her  meant  Duty,  various, 
Yet  equal  in  its  worth,  done  worthily. 
Command  was  service  ;  humblest  service  done 
By  willing  and  discerning  soul  was  glory. 
Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench. 
Close  fronting  the  old  knitter,  and  they  talked 
With  sweet  antiphony  of  young  and  old. 

Agatha. 

You  like  our  valley,  lady  ?    I  am  glad 

You  thought  it  well  to  come  again.    But  rest  — 

The  walk  is  long  from  Master  MichaeFs  inn. 

Countess  Linda. 
Yes,  but  no  walk  is  prettier. 

Agatha. 

It  is  true : 

There  lacks  no  blessing  here,  the  waters  all 
Have  virtues  like  the  garments  of  the  Lord, 
And  heal  much  sickness ;  then,  the  crops  and  cc 
Flourish  past  speaking,  and  the  garden  flowers, 
Pink,  blue,  and  purple,  't  is  a  joy  to  see 
How  they  yield  honey  for  the  singing  bees. 
I  would  the  whole  world  were  as  good  a  home. 

Countess  Linda. 
And  you  are  well  off,  Agatha  ?  —  your  friends 
Left  you  a  certain  bread ;  is  it  not  so  ? 


312 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Agatha. 

Not  so  at  all,  dear  lady.    I  had  naught, 

Was  a  poor  orphan ;  but  I  came  to  tend 

Here  in  this  house,  an  old  afflicted  pair, 

Who  wore  out  slowly ;  and  the  last  who  died, 

Full  thirty  years  ago,  left  me  this  roof 

And  all  the  household  stuff.    It  was  great  wealth, 

And  so  I  had  a  home  for  Kate  and  Nell. 

Countess  Linda. 

But  how,  then,  have  you  earned  your  daily  bread 
These  thirty  years  ? 

Agatha. 

Oh,  that  is  easy  earning. 
We  help  the  neighbors,  and  our  bit  and  sup 
Is  never  failing  :  they  have  work  for  us 
In  house  and  field,  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends. 
Patching  and  mending,  turning  o'er  the  hay. 
Holding  sick  children  —  there  is  always  work ; 
And  they  are  very  good  —  the  neighbors  are : 
Weigh  not  our  bits  of  work  with  weight  and  scale. 
But  glad  themselves  with  giving  us  good  shares 
Of  meat  and  drink ;  and  in  the  big  farmhouse 
When  cloth  comes  home  from  weaving,  the  good  wife 
Cuts  me  a  piece  —  this  very  gown  —  and  says  : 
"  Here,  Agatha,  you  old  maid,  you  have  time 
To  pray  for  Hans  who  is  gone  soldiering : 
The  saints  might  help  him,  and  they  have  much  to  do, 
'T  were  well  they  were  besought  to  think  of  him.'' 
She  spoke  half  jesting,  but  I  pray,  I  pray 
For  poor  young  Hans.    I  take  it  much  to  heart 
That  other  people  are  worse  off  than  I  — 
I  ease  my  soul  with  praying  for  them  all. 


AGATHA. 


313 


Countess  Linda. 

That  is  your  way  of  singing,  Agatha ; 

Just  as  the  nightingales  pour  forth  sad  songs, 

And  when  they  reach  men's  ears  they  make  men's  hearts 

Feel  the  more  kindly. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  I  cannot  sing : 
My  voice  is  hoarse,  and  oft  I  think  my  prayers 
Are  foolish,  feeble  things ;  for  Christ  is  good 
Whether  I  pray  or  not  —  the  Virgin's  heart 
Is  kinder  far  than  mine  ;  and  then  I  stop 
And  feel  I  can  do  naught  toward  helping  men. 
Till  out  it  comes,  like  tears  that  will  not  hold, 
And  I  must  pray  again  for  all  the  world. 
'T  is  good  to  me  —  I  mean  the  neighbors  are  : 
To  Kate  and  ISTell  too.    I  have  money  saved 
To  go  on  pilgrimage  the  second  time. 

Countess  Linda. 
And  do  you  mean  to  go  on  pilgrimage 
With  all  your  years  to  carry,  Agatha  ? 

Agatha. 

The  years  are  light,  dear  lady :  't  is  my  sins 
Are  heavier  than  I  would.    And  I  shall  go 
All  the  way  to  Einsiedeln  with  that  load : 
I  need  to  work  it  off. 

Countess  Linda. 
What  sort  of  sins, 
Dear  Agatha  ?    I  think  they  must  be  small. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  but  they  may  be  greater  than  I  know ; 
'T  is  but  dim  light  I  see  by.    So  I  try 


314 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


All  ways  I  know  of  to  be  cleansed  and  pure. 

I  would  not  sink  where  evil  spirits  are. 

There 's  perfect  goodness  somewhere  :  so  I  strive. 

Countess  Linda. 
You  were  the  better  for  that  pilgrimage 
You  made  before  ?    The  shrine  is  beautiful ; 
And  then  you  saiv  fresh  country  all  the  way. 

Agatha. 

Yes,  that  is  true.    And  ever  since  that  time 
The  world  seems  greater,  and  the  Holy  Church 
More  wonderful.    The  blessed  pictures  all, 
The  heavenly  images  with  books  and  wings, 
Are  company  to  me  through  the  day  and  night. 
The  time  !  the  time  !    It  never  seemed  far  back. 
Only  to  father's  father  and  his  kin 
That  lived  before  him.    But  the  time  stretched  out 
After  that  pilgrimage  :  I  seemed  to  see 
Far  back,  and  yet  I  knew  time  lay  behind. 
As  there  are  countries  lying  still  behind 
The  highest  mountains,  there  in  Switzerland. 
Oh,  it  is  great  to  go  on  pilgrimage  ! 

Countess  Linda. 
Perhaps  some  neighbors  will  be  pilgrims  too, 
And  you  can  start  together  in  a  band. 

Agatha. 

Not  from  these  hills  :  people  are  busy  here, 

The  beasts  want  tendance.    One  who  is  not  missed 

Can  go  and  pray  for  others  who  must  work. 

I  owe  it  to  all  neighbors,  young  and  old ; 

For  they  are  good  past  thinking  —  lads  and  girls 

Given  to  mischief,  merry  naughtiness, 

Quiet  it,  as  the  hedgehogs  smooth  their  spines, 


AGATHA. 


315 


For  fear  of  hurting  poor  old  Agatha. 

is  pretty :  why,  the  cherubs  in  the  sky 
Look  young  and  merry,  and  the  angels  play 
On  cithernS;  lutes,  and  all  sweet  instruments. 
I  would  have  young  things  merry.    See  the  Lord ! 
A  little  baby  playing  with  the  birds ; 
And  how  the  Blessed  Mother  smiles  at  him. 

Coui^TESs  Linda. 
I  think  you  are  too  happy,  Agatha, 
To  care  for  heaven.    Earth  contents  you  well. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  nay,  I  shall  be  called,  and  I  shall  go 

Eight  willingly.    I  shall  get  helpless,  blind. 

Be  like  an  old  stalk  to  be  plucked  away : 

The  garden  must  be  cleared  for  young  spring  plants. 

^T  is  home  beyond  the  grave,  the  most  are  there, 

All  those  we  pray  to,  all  the  Churches  lights  — 

And  poor  old  souls  are  welcome  in  their  rags : 

One  sees  it  by  the  pictures.    Good  Saint  Ann, 

The  Virgin's  mother,  she  is  very  old. 

And  had  her  troubles  with  her  husband  too. 

Poor  Kate  and  Nell  are  younger  far  than  I, 

But  they  will  have  this  roof  to  cover  them. 

I  shall  go  willingly  ;  and  willingness 

Makes  the  yoke  easy  and  the  burden  light. 

Countess  Linda. 
When  you  go  southward  in  your  pilgrimage. 
Come  to  see  me  in  Freiburg,  Agatha. 
Where  you  have  friends  you  should  not  go  to  inns. 

Agatha. 

Yes,  I  will  gladly  come  to  see  you,  lady. 
And  you  will  give  me  sweet  hay  for  a  bed. 


316  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  in  the  morning  I  shall  wake  betimes 
And  start  when  all  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

Countess  Linda. 

You  wear  your  smart  clothes  on  the  pilgrimage, 
Such  pretty  clothes  as  all  the  women  here 
Keep  by  them  for  their  best :  a  velvet  cap 
And  collar  golden-broidered  ?    They  look  well 
On  old  and  young  alike. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  I  have  none  — 
Never  had  better  clothes  than  these  you  see. 
Good  clothes  are  pretty,  but  one  sees  them  best 
When  others  wear  them,  and  I  somehow  thought 
'T  was  not  worth  while.    I  had  so  many  things 
More  than  some  neighbors,  I  was  partly  shy 
Of  wearing  better  clothes  than  they,  and  now 
I  am  so  old  and  custom  is  so  strong 
'T  would  hurt  me  sore  to  put  on  finery. 

Countess  Linda. 

Your  gray  hair  is  a  crown,  dear  Agatha. 

Shake  hands  ;  good-by.    The  sun  is  going  down, 

And  I  must  see  the  glory  from  the  hill. 

I  stayed  among  those  hills ;  and  oft  heard  more 
Of  Agatha.    I  liked  to  hear  her  name, 
As  that  of  one  half  grandame  and  half  saint, 
Uttered  with  reverent  playfulness.    The  lads 
And  younger  men  all  called  her  mother,  aunt, 
Or  granny,  with  their  pet  diminutives. 
And  bade  their  lasses  and  their  brides  behave 
Eight  well  to  one  who  surely  made  a  link 
'Twixt  faulty  folk  and  God  by  loving  both : 


AGATHA. 


317 


'Not  one  but  counted  service  done  by  her, 

Asking  no  pay  save  just  her  daily  bread. 

At  feasts  and  weddings,  when  they  passed  in  groups 

Along  the  vale,  and  the  good  country  wine, 

Being  vocal  in  them,  made  them  quire  along 

In  quaintly  mingled  mirth  and  piety. 

They  fain  must  jest  and  play  some  friendly  trick 

On  three  old  maids  ;  but  when  the  moment  came 

Always  they  bated  breath  and  made  their  sport 

Gentle  as  feather-stroke,  that  Agatha 

Might  like  the  waking  for  the  love  it  showed. 

Their  song  made  happy  music  ^mid  the  hills. 

For  nature  tuned  their  race  to  harmony. 

And  poet  Hans,  the  tailor,  wrote  them  songs 

That  grew  from  out  their  life,  as  crocuses 

From  out  the  meadow's  moistness.    T  was  his  song 

They  oft  sang,  wending  homeward  from  a  feast  — 

The  song  I  give  you.    It  brings  in,  you  see. 

Their  gentle  jesting  with  the  three  old  maids. 

Midnight  by  the  chapel  bell ! 

Homeward,  homeward  all,  farewell ! 

I  with  you,  and  you  with  me, 

Miles  are  short  with  company. 
Heart  of  Mary,  bless  the  way, 
Keep  us  all  by  night  and  day  ! 

Moon  and  stars  at  feast  with  night 
Now  have  drunk  their  fill  of  light. 
Home  they  hurry,  making  time 
Trot  apace,  like  merry  rhyme. 

Heart  of  Mary,  mystic  rose, 

Send  us  all  a  sweet  repose  ! 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Swiftly  through  the  wood  down  hill, 
Run  till  you  can  hear  the  mill. 
Toni's  ghost  is  wandering  now, 
Shaped  just  like  a  snow-white  cow. 
Heart  of  Mary^  morning  star, 
Ward  off  danger,  near  or  far  ! 

Toni's  wagon  with  its  load 
Fell  and  crushed  him  in  the  road 
'Twixt  these  pine-trees.    Never  fear  ! 
Give  a  neighbor's  ghost  good  cheer. 
Holy  Babe,  our  God  and  Brother^ 
Bind  us  fast  to  one  another! 

Hark !  the  mijl  is  at  its  work. 
Now  we  pass  beyond  the  murk 
To  the  hollow,  where  the  moon 
Makes  her  silvery  afternoon. 

Good  Saint  Joseph,  faithful  spouse, 
Help  us  all  to  keep  our  vows  ! 

Here  the  three  old  maidens  dwell, 

Agatha  and  Kate  and  Nell ; 

See,  the  moon  shines  on  the  thatch. 

We  will  go  and  shake  the  latch. 
Heart  of  Mary,  cup  of  joy, 
Give  us  mirth  without  alloy  ! 

Hush,  't  is  here,  no  noise,  sing  low, 
Rap  with  gentle  knuckles  —  so  ! 
Like  the  little  tapping  birds. 
On  the  door ;  then  sing  good  words. 
Meek  Saint  Anna,  old  and  fair, 
Hallow  all  the  snow-white  hair  ! 


AGATHA. 


Little  maidens  old,  sweet  dreams ! 
Sleep  one  sleep  till  morning  beams. 
Mothers  ye,  who  help  us  all, 
Quick  at  hand,  if  ill  befall. 

Holy  Gabriel  J  lily -laden. 
Bless  the  aged  mother-maiden  I 

Forward,  mount  the  broad  hillside 
Swift  as  soldiers  when  they  ride. 
See  the  two  towers  how  they  peep, 
Eound-capped  giants,  o'er  the  steep. 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  sorroiv, 
Keep  us  upright  through  the  morrow 

Now  they  rise  quite  suddenly 
Like  a  man  from  bended  knee, 
Now  Saint  Margen  is  in  sight. 
Here  the  roads  branch  off  —  good-night. 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  grace, 
Give  us  with  the  saints  a  place  I 


AEMGAET. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Salon  lit  with  lamps  and  ornamented  with  green  plants. 
An  open  piano,  with  many  scattered  sheets  of  music. 
Bronze  busts  of  Beethoven  and  Gluck  on  pillars  oppo- 
site each  other,  A  small  table  spread  ivith  supper. 
To  Fraulein  Walpurga,  who  advances  ivith  a  slight 
lameness  of  gait  from  an  adjoining  room,  enters  Ghaf 
DoRNBERG  at  the  op)posite  door  in  a  travelling  dress, 

Graf. 

Good-morning,  Fraulein ! 

Walpurga. 

What,  so  soon  returned  ? 
I  feared  your  mission  kept  you  still  at  Prague. 

Graf. 

But  now  arrived  !    You  see  my  travelling  dress. 
I  hurried  from  the  panting,  roaring  steam 
Like  any  courier  of  embassy 
Who  hides  the  fiends  of  war  within  his  bag. 

Walpurga. 
You  know  that  Armgart  sings  to-night  ? 

Graf. 

Has  sung ! 

'T  is  close  on  half-past  nine.    The  Orpheus 


ARMGART. 


321 


Lasts  not  so  long.  Her  spirits  —  were  they  high  ? 
Was  Leo  confident  ? 

Walpurga. 

He  only  feared 
Some  tameness  at  beginning.    Let  the  house 
Once  ring,  he  said,  with  plaudits,  she  is  safe. 

Graf. 

And  Armgart  ? 

Walpurga. 

She  was  stiller  than  her  wont. 
But  once,  at  some  such  trivial  word  of  mine. 
As  that  the  highest  prize  might  yet  be  won 
By  her  who  took  the  second  —  she  was  roused. 
"  For  me,'^  she  said,    I  triumph  or  I  fail. 
I  never  strove  for  any  second  prize/' 

Graf. 

Poor  human-hearted  singing-bird  !    She  bears 

Caesar's  ambition  in  her  delicate  breast, 

And  naught  to  still  it  with  but  quivering  song ! 

Walpurga. 

I  had  not  for  the  world  been  there  to-night : 
Unreasonable  dread  oft  chills  me  more 
Than  any  reasonable  hope  can  warm. 

Graf. 

You  have  a  rare  affection  for  your  cousin  j 
As  tender  as  a  sister's. 

Walpurga. 

Nay,  I  fear 
My  love  is  little  more  than  what  I  felt 
21 


322  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


For  happy  stories  when  I  was  a  child. 
She  fills  my  life  that  would  be  empty  else, 
And  lifts  my  naught  to  value  by  her  side. 

Graf. 

She  is  reason  good  enough,  or  seems  to  be, 
Why  all  were  born  whose  being  ministers 
To  her  completeness.    Is  it  most  her  voice 
Subdues  us  ?  or  her  instinct  exquisite. 
Informing  each  old  strain  with  some  new  grace 
Which  takes  our  sense  like  any  natural  good  ? 
Or  most  her  spiritual  energy 
That  sweeps  us  in  the  current  of  her  song  ? 

Walpurga. 

I  know  not.    Losing  either,  we  should  lose 

That  whole  we  call  our  Armgart.    For  herself, 

She  often  wonders  what  her  life  had  been 

Without  that  voice  for  channel  to  her  soul. 

She  says,  it  must  have  leaped  through  all  her  limbs  — 

Made  her  a  Maenad  —  made  her  snatch  a  brand 

And  fire  some  forest,  that  her  rage  might  mount 

In  crashing  roaring  flames  through  half  a  land. 

Leaving  her  still  and  patient  for  a  while. 

"  Poor  wretch  !    she  says,  of  any  murderess  — 

"  The  world  was  cruel,  and  she  could  not  sing : 

I  carry  my  revenges  in  my  throat ; 

I  love  in  singing,  and  am  loved  again." 

Graf. 

Mere  mood  !    I  cannot  yet  believe  it  more. 
Too  much  ambition  has  unwomaned  her ; 
But  only  for  a  while.    Her  nature  hides 
One  half  its  treasures  by  its  very  wealth, 
Taxing  the  hours  to  show  it. 


Place  for  the  Queen  of  Song 


ARMGART. 


323 


Walpurga. 

Hark !  she  comes. 
{Enter  Leo  with  a  wreath  in  his  hand,  holding 
the  door  open  for  Armgart,  who  wears  a 
furred  mantle  and  hood.    She  is  followed  hy 
her  maid,  carrying  an  armful  of  bouquets.) 

Leo. 

Place  for  the  queen  of  song ! 

Graf  (advancing  toward  Armgart,  who  throws  off 
her  hood  and  mantle,  and  shows  a  star  of  brilliants 
in  her  hair), 

A  triumph,  then. 
You  will  not  be  a  niggard  of  your  joy 
And  chide  the  eagerness  that  came  to  share  it. 

Armgart. 

0  kind !  you  hastened  your  return  for  me. 

1  would  you  had  been  there  to  hear  me  sing ! 
Walpurga,  kiss  me  :  never  tremble  more 

Lest  Armgart's  wing  should  fail  her.    She  has  found 

This  night  the  region  where  her  rapture  breathes  — 

Pouring  her  passion  on  the  air  made  live 

With  human  heart-throbs.    Tell  them,  Leo,  tell  them 

How  I  outsang  your  hope  and  made  you  cry 

Because  Gluck  could  not  hear  me.    That  was  folly  ! 

He  sang,  not  listened  :  every  linked  note 

Was  his  immortal  pulse  that  stirred  in  mine, 

And  all  my  gladness  is  but  part  of  him. 

Give  me  the  wreath. 

{She  crowns  the  bust  of  Gluck,) 

Leo  {sardonically). 

Ay,  ay,  but  mark  you  this  : 
It  was  not  part  of  him  —  that  trill  you  made 
In  spite  of  me  and  reason  } 


324  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Armgart. 

You  were  wrong  — 
Dear  Leo^  you  were  wrong :  the  house  was  held 
As  if  a  storm  were  listening  with  delight 
And  hushed  its  thunder. 

Leo. 

Will  you  ask  the  house 
To  teach  you  singing  ?    Quit  your  Orpheus  then, 
And  sing  in  farces  grown  to  operas, 
Where  all  the  prurience  of  the  full-fed  mob 
Is  tickled  with  melodic  impudence : 
Jerk  forth  burlesque  bravuras,  square  your  arms 
Akimbo  with  a  tavern  wench's  grace, 
And  set  the  splendid  compass  of  your  voice 
To  lyric  jigs.    Go  to  !  I  thought  you  meant 
To  be  an  artist  —  lift  your  audience 
To  see  your  vision,  not  trick  forth  a  show 
To  please  the  grossest  taste  of  grossest  numbers. 

Armgart  (taking  up  Leo's  hand  and  kissing  it). 
Pardon,  good  Leo,  I  am  penitent. 
I  will  do  penance  :  sing  a  hundred  trills 
Into  a  deep-dug  grave,  then  burying  them 
As  one  did  Midas'  secret,  rid  myself 
Of  naughty  exultation.    Oh  I  trilled 
At  nature's  prompting,  like  the  nightingales. 
Go  scold  them,  dearest  Leo. 

Leo. 

I  stop  my  ears. 
Nature  in  Gluck  inspiring  Orpheus, 
Has  done  with  nightingales.    Are  bird-beaks  lips  ? 

Graf. 

Truce  to  rebukes  !    Tell  us  — who  were  not  there  — 
The  double  drama  :  how  the  expectant  house 
Took  the  first  notes. 


ARMGART. 


325 


Walpubga  (turning  from  her  occupation  of  decking  the 
room  with  the  flowers). 

Yes,  tell  us  all,  dear  Armgart. 
Did  you  feel  tremors  ?    Leo,  how  did  slie  look  ? 
Was  there  a  cheer  to  greet  her  ? 

Leo. 

Not  a  sound. 
She  walked  like  Orpheus  in  his  solitude, 
And  seemed  to  see  naught  but  what  no  man  saw. 

was  famous.    Not  the  Schroeder-Devrient 
Had  done  it  better.    But  your  blessed  public 
Had  never  any  judgment  in  cold  blood  — 
Thinks  all  perhaps  were  better  otherwise, 
Till  rapture  brings  a  reason. 

Armgart  (scornfully). 

I  knew  that ! 
The  women  whispered,  "  Not  a  pretty  face  !  " 
The  men,  "  Well,  well,  a  goodly  length  of  limb : 
She  bears  the  chiton."  — It  were  all  the  same 
Were  I  the  Virgin  Mother  and  my  stage 
The  opening  heavens  at  the  Judgment-day: 
Gossips  would  peep,  jog  elbows,  rate  the  price 
Of  such  a  woman  in  the  social  mart. 
What  were  the  drama  of  the  world  to  them, 
Unless  they  felt  the  hell-prong  ? 

Leo. 

Peace,  now,  peace ! 
I  hate  my  phrases  to  be  smothered  o'er 
With  sauce  of  paraphrase,  my  sober  tune 
Made  bass  to  rambling  trebles,  showering  down 
In  endless  demi-semi-quavers. 


326 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Arm G ART  {taking  a  hon-hon  from  the  table,  uplifting 
it  before  putting  it  into  her  mouth,  and  turning 

^^o.y\  Mum! 

Graf. 

Yes,  tell  us  all  the  glory,  leave  the  blame. 

Walpurga. 

You  first,  dear  Leo  —  what  you  saw  and  heard ; 
Then  Armgart  —  she  must  tell  us  what  she  felt. 

Leo. 

Well !    The  first  notes  came  clearly,  firmly  forth. 

And  I  was  easy,  for  behind  those  rills 

I  knew  there  was  a  fountain.    I  could  see 

The  house  was  breathing  gently,  heads  were  still ; 

Parrot  opinion  was  struck  meekly  mute. 

And  human  hearts  were  swelling.    Armgart  stood 

As  if  she  had  been  new-created  there 

And  found  her  voice  which  found  a  melody. 

The  minx !    Gluck  had  not  written,  nor  I  taught : 

Orpheus  was  Armgart,  Armgart  Orpheus. 

Well,  well,  all  through  the  scena  I  could  feel 

The  silence  tremble  now,  now  poise  itself 

With  added  weight  of  feeling,  till  at  last 

Delight  o'er-toppled  it.    The  final  note 

Had  happy  drowning  in  the  unloosed  roar 

That  surged  and  ebbed  and  ever  surged  again, 

Till  expectation  kept  it  pent  awhile 

Ere  Orpheus  returned.    Pf ui !    He  was  changed  : 

My  demi-god  was  pale,  had  downcast  eyes 

That  quivered  like  a  bride's  who  fain  would  send 

Backward  the  rising  tear. 


ARMGART. 


327 


Armgart  (advancing,  hut  then  turning  away,  as  if  to 
check  her  speech) . 

I  was  a  bride, 
As  nuns  are  at  their  spousals. 

Leo. 

Ay,  my  lady, 

That  moment  will  not  come  again :  applause 
May  come  and  plenty ;  but  the  first,  first  draught ! 

(Snaps  his  fingers.) 
Music  has  sounds  for  it — I  know  no  words. 
I  felt  it  once  myself  when  they  performed 
My  overture  to  Sintram.    Well !  't  is  strange, 
We  know  not  pain  from  pleasure  in  such  joy. 

Armgart  (turning  quickly). 
Oh,  pleasure  has  cramped  dwelling  in  our  souls. 
And  when  full  Being  comes  must  call  on  pain 
To  lend  it  liberal  space. 

Walpurga. 

I  hope  the  house 
Kept  a  reserve  of  plaudits  :  I  am  jealous 
Lest  they  had  dulled  themselves  for  coming  good 
That  should  have  seemed  the  better  and  the  best. 

Leo. 

No,  't  was  a  revel  where  they  had  but  quaffed 
Their  opening  cup.    I  thank  the  artist's  star, 
His  audience  keeps  not  sober :  once  afire. 
They  flame  toward  climax  though  his  merit  hold 
But  fairly  even. 

Armgart  (her  hand  on  Leo's  arrn), 

Now,  now,  confess  the  truth  : 
I  sang  still  better  to  the  very  end  — 


828  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


All  save  the  trill ;  I  give  that  up  to  you, 
To  bite  and  growl  at.    Why,  you  said  yourself, 
Each  time  I  sang,  it  seemed  new  doors  were  oped 
That  you  might  hear  heaven  clearer. 

Leo  (shaking  his  finger), 

I  was  raving. 

Armgart. 
I  am  not  glad  with  that  mean  vanity 
Which  knows  no  good  beyond  its  appetite 
Full  feasting  upon  praise  !    I  am  only  glad. 
Being  praised  for  what  I  know  is  worth  the  praise  ; 
Glad  of  the  proof  that  I  myself  have  part 
In  what  I  worship !    At  the  last  applause  — 
Seeming  a  roar  of  tropic  winds  that  tossed 
The  handkerchiefs  and  many-colored  flowers, 
Falling  like  shattered  rainbows  all  around  — 
Think  you  I  felt  myself  a  prima  donna  ? 
No,  but  a  happy  spiritual  star 
Such  as  old  Dante  saw,  wrought  in  a  rose 
Of  light  in  Paradise,  whose  only  self 
Was  consciousness  of  glory  wide-diffused, 
Music,  life,  power  —  I  moving  in  the  midst 
With  a  sublime  necessity  of  good. 

Leo  (with  a  shrug), 
I  thought  it  was  ^  prima  donna  came 
Within  the  side-scenes  ;  ay,  and  she  was  proud 
To  find  the  bouquet  from  the  royal  box 
Enclosed  a  jewel-case,  and  proud  to  wear 
A  star  of  brilliants,  quite  an  earthly  star, 
Valued  by  thalers.    Come,  my  lady,  own 
Ambition  has  five  senses,  and  a  self 
That  gives  it  good  warm  lodging  when  it  sinks 
Plump  down  from  ecstasy. 


AEMGART. 


329 


Armgart. 

Own  it  ?  why  not  ? 
Am  I  a  sage  whose  words  must  fall  like  seed 
Silently  buried  toward  a  far-off  spring  ? 
I  sing  to  living  men  and  my  effect 
Is  like  the  summer's  sun,  that  ripens  corn 
Or  now  or  never.    If  the  world  brings  me  gifts, 
Gold,  incense,  myrrh  —  't  will  be  the  needful  sign 
That  I  have  stirred  it  as  the  high  year  stirs 
Before  I  sink  to  winter. 

Graf. 

Ecstasies 

Are  short  —  most  happily  !    We  should  but  lose 
Were  Armgart  borne  too  commonly  and  long 
Out  of  the  self  that  charms  us.    Could  I  choose, 
She  were  less  apt  to  soar  beyond  the  reach 
Of  woman's  foibles,  innocent  vanities, 
Fondness  for  trifles  like  that  pretty  star 
Twinkling  beside  her  cloud  of  ebon  hair. 

Armgart  (taking  out  the  gem  and  looking  at  it). 

This  little  star !    I  would  it  were  the  seed 

Of  a  whole  Milky  Way,  if  such  bright  shimmer 

Were  the  sole  speech  men  told  their  rapture  with 

At  Armgart's  music.    Shall  I  turn  aside 

From  splendors  which  flash  out  the  glow  I  make, 

And  live  to  make,  in  all  the  chosen  breasts 

Of  half  a  Continent  ?    ISTo,  may  it  come. 

That  splendor  !    May  the  day  be  near  when  men 

Think  much  to  let  my  horses  draw  me  home. 

And  new  lands  welcome  me  upon  their  beach, 

Loving  me  for  my  fame.    That  is  the  truth 

Of  what  I  wish,  nay,  yearn  for.    Shall  I  lie  ? 

Pretend  to  seek  obscurity  —  to  sing 


330  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


In  hope  of  disregard  ?    A  vile  pretence  ! 
And  blasphemy  besides.    For  what  is  fame 
But  the  benignant  strength  of  One^  transformed 
To  joy  of  Many  ?    Tributes^  plaudits  come 
As  necessary  breathing  of  such  joy ; 
And  may  they  come  to  me  ! 

Gkaf. 

The  auguries 
Point  clearly  that  way.    Is  it  no  offence 
To  wish  the  eagle's  wing  may  find  repose, 
As  feebler  wings  do,  in  a  quiet  nest  ? 
Or  has  the  taste  of  fame  already  turned 
The  Woman  to  a  Muse  .... 

Leo  {going  to  the  table). 

Who  needs  no  supper. 
I  am  her  priest,  ready  to  eat  her  share 
Of  good  Walpurga's  offerings. 

Walpurga. 

Armgart,  come. 

Graf,  will  you  come  ? 

Graf. 

Thanks,  I  play  truant  here, 
And  must  retrieve  my  self -indulged  delay. 
But  will  the  Muse  receive  a  votary 
At  any  hour  to-morrow  ? 

Armgart. 

Any  hour 

After  rehearsal,  after  twelve  at  noou. 


AEMGART. 


331 


SCENE  II. 

The  same  Salon,  morning,  Armgart  seated,  in  her  bonnet 
and  walking-dress.  The  Graf  standing  near  her 
against  the  piano, 

Graf. 

Armgart,  to  many  minds  tlie  first  success 
Is  reason  for  desisting.    I  have  known 
A  man  so  versatile,  he  tried  all  arts, 
But  when  in  each  by  turns  he  had  achieved 
Just  so  much  mastery  as  made  men  say, 

He  could  be  king  here  if  he  would,'^  he  threw 
The  lauded  skill  aside.    He  hates,  said  one, 
The  level  of  achieved  pre-eminence. 
He  must  be  conquering  still  5  but  others  said  — 

Armgart. 

The  truth,  I  hope :  he  had  a  meagre  soul. 
Holding  no  depth  where  love  could  root  itself. 

Could  if  he  would  ?      True  greatness  ever  wills  — 
It  lives  in  wholeness  if  it  live  at  all. 
And  all  its  strength  is  knit  with  constancy. 

Graf. 

He  used  to  say  himself  he  was  too  sane 

To  give  his  life  away  for  excellence 

Which  yet  must  stand,  an  ivory  statuette 

Wrought  to  perfection  through  long  lonely  years, 

Huddled  in  the  mart  of  mediocrities. 

He  said,  the  very  finest  doing  wins 

The  admiring  only  ;  but  to  leave  undone. 

Promise  and  not  fulfil,  like  buried  youth. 

Wins  all  the  envious,  makes  them  sigh  your  name 


332  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


As  that  fair  Absent,  blameless  Possible, 
Wliieli  could  alone  impassion  tliem ;  and  thus, 
Serene  negation  has  free  gift  of  all, 
Panting  achievement  struggles,  is  denied, 
Or  wins  to  lose  again.    What  say  you,  Armgart  ? 
Truth  has  rough  flavors  if  we  bite  it  through ; 
I  think  this  sarcasm  came  from  out  its  core 
Of  bitter  irony. 

Armgart. 

It  is  the  truth 
Mean  souls  select  to  feed  upon.    What  then  ? 
Their  meanness  is  a  truth,  which  I  will  spurn. 
The  praise  I  seek  lives  not  in  envious  breath 
Using  my  name  to  blight  another's  deed. 
I  sing  for  love  of  song  and  that  renown 
Which  is  the  spreading  act,  the  world-wide  share, 
Of  good  that  I  was  born  with.    Had  I  failed  — 
Well,  that  had  been  a  truth  most  pitiable. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  life  would  be 
With  high  hope  shrunk  to  endurance,  stunted  aims 
Like  broken  lances  ground  to  eating-knives, 
A  self  sunk  down  to  look  with  level  eyes 
At  low  achievement,  doomed  from  day  to  day 
To  distaste  of  its  consciousness.    But  I  — 

Graf. 

Have  won,  not  lost,  in  your  decisive  throw. 

And  I  too  glory  in  this  issue ;  yet. 

The  public  verdict  has  no  potency 

To  sway  my  judgment  of  what  Armgart  is : 

My  pure  delight  in  her  would  be  but  sullied. 

If  it  o'erflowed  with  mixture  of  men's  praise. 

And  had  she  failed,  I  should  have  said,    The  pearl 

liemains  a  pearl  for  me,  reflects  the  light 


ARMGART. 


333 


With  the  same  fitness  that  first  charmed  my  gaze  — 
Is  worth  as  fine  a  setting  now  as  then." 

Aemgart  (rising). 

Oh,  you  are  good !    But  why  will  you  rehearse 
The  talk  of  cynics,  who  with  insect  eyes 
Explore  the  secrets  of  the  rubbish-heap  ? 
I  hate  your  epigrams  and  pointed  saws 
Whose  narrow  truth  is  but  broad  falsity. 
Confess  your  friend  was  shallow. 

Graf. 

I  confess 

Life  is  not  rounded  in  an  epigram, 

And  saying  aught,  we  leave  a  world  unsaid. 

I  quoted,  merely  to  shape  forth  my  thought 

That  high  success  has  terrors  when  achieved  — 

Like  preternatural  spouses  whose  dire  love 

Hangs  perilous  on  slight  observances : 

Whence  it  were  possible  that  Armgart  crowned 

Might  turn  and  listen  to  a  pleading  voice. 

Though  Armgart  striving  in  the  race  was  deaf. 

You  said  you  dared  not  think  what  life  had  been 

Without  the  stamp  of  eminence  ;  have  you  thought 

How  you  will  bear  the  poise  of  eminence 

With  dread  of  sliding  ?    Paint  the  future  out 

As  an  unchecked  and  glorious  career, 

'T  will  grow  more  strenuous  by  the  very  love 

You  bear  to  excellence,  the  very  fate 

Of  human  powers,  which  tread  at  every  step 

On  possible  verges. 

Armgart. 

I  accept  the  peril. 
I  choose  to  walk  high  with  sublimer  dread 


334  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Rather  than  crawl  in  safety.    And,  besides, 

I  am  an  artist  as  you  are  a  noble : 

I  ought  to  bear  the  burden  of  my  rank. 

Graf. 

Such  parallels,  dear  Armgart,  are  but  snares 
To  catch  the  mind  with  seeming  argument  — 
Small  baits  of  likeness  'mid  disparity. 
Men  rise  the  higher  as  their  task  is  high, 
The  task  being  well  achieved.    A  woman's  rank 
Lies  in  the  fulness  of  her  womanhood : 
Therein  alone  she  is  royal. 

Armgart. 

Yes,  I  know 
The  oft-taught  Gospel :  "  Woman,  thy  desire 
Shall  be  that  all  superlatives  on  earth 
Belong  to  men,  save  the  one  highest  kind  — 
To  be  a  mother.    Thou  shalt  not  desire 
To  do  aught  best  save  pure  subservience : 
Nature  has  willed  it  so  ! "    0  blessed  Nature  ! 
Let  her  be  arbitress ;  she  gave  me  voice 
Such  as  she  only  gives  a  woman  child. 
Best  of  its  kind,  gave  me  ambition  too, 
That  sense  transcendent  which  can  taste  the  joy 
Of  swaying  multitudes,  of  being  adored 
For  such  achievement,  needed  excellence. 
As  man's  best  art  must  wait  for,  or  be  dumb. 
Men  did  not  say,  when  I  had  sung  last  night, 
^^'Twas  good,  nay,  wonderful,  considering 
She  is  a  woman  "  —  and  then  turn  to  add, 

Tenor  or  baritone  had  sung  her  songs 
Better,  of  course  :  she 's  but  a  woman  spoiled.'^ 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Graf,  you  said  it. 


ARMGART. 


335 


Graf. 

1^0 ! 

How  should  I  say  it,  Armgart  ?    I  wlio  own 
The  magic  of  your  nature-given  art 
As  sweetest  effluence  of  your  womanhood 
Which,  being  to  my  choice  the  best,  must  find 
•  The  best  of  utterance.    But  this  I  say : 
Your  fervid  youth  beguiles  you ;  you  mistake 
A  strain  of  lyric  passion  for  a  life 
Which  in  the  spending  is  a  chronicle 
With  ugly  pages.    Trust  me,  Armgart,  trust  me ; 
Ambition  exquisite  as  yours  which  soars 
Towards  something  quintessential  you  call  fame, 
Is  not  robust  enough  for  this  gross  world 
Whose  fame  is  dense  with  false  and  foolish  breath. 
Ardor,  a-twin  with  nice  refining  thought. 
Prepares  a  double  pain.    Pain  had  been  saved. 
Nay,  purer  glory  reached,  had  you  been  throned 
As  woman  only,  holding  all  your  art 
As  attribute  to  that  dear  sovereignty  — . 
Concentring  your  power  in  home  delights 
Which  penetrate  and  purify  the  world. 

Armgart. 

What !  leave  the  opera  with  my  part  ill-sung 

While  I  was  warbling  in  a  drawing-room  ? 

Sing  in  the  chimney-corner  to  inspire 

My  husband  reading  news  ?    Let  the  world  hear 

My  music  only  in  his  morning  speech 

Less  stammering  than  most  honorable  men's  ? 

No  !  tell  me  that  my  song  is  poor,  my  art 

The  piteous  feat  of  weakness  aping  strength  — 

That  were  fit  proem  to  your  argument. 

Till  then,  I  am  an  artist  by  my  birth  — 

By  the  same  warrant  that  I  am  a  woman : 


336  POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Nay,  in  the  added  rarer  gift  I  see 
Supreme  vocation :  if  a  conflict  conies, 
Perish  —  no,  not  the  woman,  but  the  joys 
Which  men  make  narrow  by  their  narrowness. 
Oh,  I  am  happy  !    The  great  masters  write 
For  women's  voices,  and  great  Music  wants  me ! 
I  need  not  crush  myself  within  a  mould 
Of  theory  called  Nature  :  I  have  room 
To  breathe  and  grow  unstunted. 

Graf. 

Armgart,  hear  me. 
I  meant  not  that  our  talk  should  hurry  on 
To  such  collision.    Foresight  of  the  ills 
Thick  shadowing  your  path,  drew  on  my  speech 
Beyond  intention.    True,  I  came  to  ask 
A  great  renunciation,  but  not  this 
Toward  which  my  words  at  first  perversely  strayed, 
As  if  in  memory  of  their  earlier  suit. 

Forgetful  

Armgart,  do  you  remember  too  ?  the  suit 
Had  but  postponement,  was  not  quite  disdained  — 
Was  told  to  wait  and  learn  —  what  it  has  learned  — ' 
A  more  submissive  speech. 

Armgart  (with  some  agitation). 
Then  it  forgot 
Its  lesson  cruelly.    As  I  remember, 
'T  was  not  to  speak  save  to  the  artist  crowned, 
Nor  speak  to  her  of  casting  off  her  crown. 

Graf. 

Nor  will  it,  Armgart.    I  come  not  to  seek 
Any  renunciation  save  the  wife's, 
Which  turns  away  from  other  possible  love 
Future  and  worthier,  to  take  his  love 


AEMGART. 


337 


Who  asks  the  name  of  husband.    He  who  sought 
Armgart  obscure,  and  heard  her  answer,  "  Wait "  — 
May  come  without  suspicion  now  to  seek 
Armgart  applauded. 

Armgart  (turning  toward  him). 

Yes,  without  suspicion 
Of  aught  save  what  consists  with  faithfulness 
In  all  expressed  intent.    Forgive  me,  Graf  — 
I  am  ungrateful  to  no  soul  that  loves  me  —  ' 
To  you  most  grateful    Yet  the  best  intent 
Grasps  but  a  living  present  which  may  grow 
Like  any  unfledged  bird.    You  are  a  noble, 
And  have  a  high  career ;  just  now  you  said 
'T  was  higher  far  than  aught  a  woman  seeks 
Beyond  mere  womanhood.    You  claim  to  be 
More  than  a  husband,  but  could  not  rejoice 
That  I  were  more  than  wife.    What  follows,  then  ? 
You  choosing  me  with  such  persistency 
As  is  but  stretched-out  rashness,  soon  must  find 
Our  marriage  asks  concessions,  asks  resolve 
To  share  renunciation  or  demand  it. 
Either  we  both  renounce  a  mutual  ease, 
As  in  a  nation's  need  both  man  and  wife 
Do  public  services,  or  one  of  us 
Must  yield  that  something  else  for  which  each  lives 
Besides  the  other.    Men  are  reasoners  : 
That  premise  of  superior  claims  perforce 
Urges  conclusion — Armgart,  it  is  you.'' 

Graf, 

But  if  I  say  I  have  considered  this 
With  strict  prevision,  counted  all  the  cost 
Which  that  great  good  of  loving  you  demands  — 
Questioned  by  stores  of  patience,  half  resolved 
22 


338 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To  live  resigned  without  a  bliss  whose  threat 

Touched  you  as  well  as  me  —  and  finally, 

With  impetus  of  undivided  will 

Eeturned  to  say,  "  You  shall  be  free  as  now ; 

Only  accept  the  refuge,  shelter,  guard, 

My  love  will  give  your  freedom"  —  then  your  words 

Are  hard  accusal. 

Armgart. 

<  Well,  I  accuse  myself. 

My  love  would  be  accomplice  of  your  will. 

Graf. 

Again  —  my  will  ? 

Armgart. 

Oh,  your  unspoken  will. 
Your  silent  tolerance  would  torture  me. 
And  on  that  rack  I  should  deny  the  good 
I  yet  believed  in. 

Graf. 

Then  I  am  the  man 
Whom  you  would  love  ? 

Armgart. 

Whom  I  refuse  to  love  1 
No ;  I  will  live  alone  and  pour  my  pain 
With  passion  into  music,  where  it  turns 
To  what  is  best  within  my  better  self. 
I  will  not  take  for  husband  one  who  deems 
The  thing  my  soul  acknowledges  as  good  — 
The  thing  I  hold  worth  striving,  suffering  for, 
To  be  a  thing  dispensed  with  easily 
Or  else  the  idol  of  a  mind  infirm. 


ARMGART. 


839 


Graf. 

Armgart,  you  are  ungenerous  ;  you  strain 
My  thought  beyond  its  mark.    Our  difference 
Lies  not  so  deep  as  love  —  as  union 
Through  a  mysterious  fitness  that  transcends 
Formal  agreement. 

Armgart. 

It  lies  deep  enough 
To  chafe  the  union.    If  many  a  man 
Refrains,  degraded,  from  the  utmost  right, 
Because  the  pleadings  of  his  wife's  small  fears 
Are  little  serpents  biting  at  his  heel  — 
How  shall  a  woman  keep  her  steadfastness 
Beneath  a  frost  within  her  husband's  eyes 
Where  coldness  scorches  ?    Graf,  it  is  your  sorrow 
That  you  love  Armgart.    Nay,  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  she  may  not  love  you. 

Graf. 

Woman,  it  seems, 
Has  enviable  power  to  love  or  not 
According  to  her  will. 

Armgart. 

She  has  the  will  — 
I  have  —  who  am  one  woman  —  not  to  take 
Disloyal  pledges  that  divide  her  will. 
The  man  who  marries  me  must  wed  my  Art  — 
Honor  and  cherish  it,  not  tolerate. 

Graf. 

The  man  is  yet  to  come  whose  theory 

Will  weigh  as  naught  with  you  against  his  love. 

Armgart. 

Whose  theory  will  plead  beside  his  love. 


340 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Graf. 

Himself  a  singer,  then  ?  who  knows  no  life 
Out  of  the  opera  books,  where  tenor  parts 
Are  found  to  suit  him  ? 

Armgart. 

You  are  bitter,  Graf. 
Forgive  me ;  seek  the  woman  you  deserve, 
All  grace,  all  goodness,  who  has  not  yet  found 
A  meaning  in  her  life,  nor  any  end 
Beyond  fulfilling  yours.    The  type  abounds. 

Graf. 

And  happily,  for  the  world. 

Armgart. 

Yes,  happily. 
Let  it  excuse  me  that  my  kind  is  rare : 
Commonness  is  its  own  security. 

Graf. 

Armgart,  I  would  with  all  my  soul  I  knew 
The  man  so  rare  that  he  could  make  your  life 
As  woman  sweet  to  you,  as  artist  safe. 

Armgart. 

Oh,  I  can  live  unmated,  but  not  live 
Without  the  bliss  of  singing  to  the  world, 
And  feeling  all  my  world  respond  to  me. 

Graf. 

May  it  be  lasting.    Then,  we  two  must  part  ? 
Armgart. 

I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  all.    Farewell ! 


ARMGART. 


341 


SCENE  HL 

A  YEAR  LATER. 

The  same  salon.  Walpurga  is  standing  looking  toward 
the  window  with  an  air  of  uneasiness.  Doctor 
Grahn. 

Doctor. 
Where  is  my  patient,  Fraulein  ? 

Walpurga. 

Fled!  escaped! 
Gone  to  rehearsal.   Is  it  dangerous  ? 

Doctor. 

N"o,  no ;  her  throat  is  cured.    I  only  came 

To  hear  her  try  her  voice.    Had  she  yet  sung  ? 

Walpurga. 

No ;  she  had  meant  to  wait  for  you.    She  said, 

The  Doctor  has  a  right  to  my  first  song." 
Her  gratitude  was  full  of  little  plans, 
But  all  were  swept  away  like  gathered  flowers 
By  sudden  storm.    She  saw  this  opera  bill  — 
It  was  a  wasp  to  sting  her :  she  turned  pale, 
Snatched  up  her  hat  and  mufilers,  said  in  haste, 
"I  go  to  Leo  —  to  rehearsal  —  none 
Shall  sing  Fidelio  to-night  but  me ! 
Then  rushed  down-stairs. 

Doctor  (looking  at  his  watch). 

And  this,  not  long  ago  ? 


842  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Walpurga. 

Barely  an  hour. 

Doctor. 

I  will  come  again, 
Eeturning  from  Charlottenburg  at  one. 

Walpurga. 

Doctor,  I  feel  a  strange  presentiment. 
Are  you  quite  easy  ? 

Doctor. 

She  can  take  no  harm, 
was  time  for  her  to  sing :  her  throat  is  well, 
It  was  a  fierce  attack,  and  dangerous ; 
I  had  to  use  strong  remedies,  but  —  well ! 
At  one,  dear  Fraulein,  we  shall  meet  again* 

SCENE  lY. 

TWO  HOURS  LATER. 

Walpurga  starts  up,  looking  toward  the  door,  Arm- 
GART  enters,  followed  hy  Leo.  She  throws  herself  on 
a  chair  which  stands  with  its  hack  toward  the  door, 
speechless,  not  seeming  to  see  anything.  Walpurga 
casts  a  questioning  terrified  look  at  Leo.  He  shrugs 
his  shoulders,  and  lifts  up  his  hands  behind  Armgart, 
who  sits  like  a  helpless  image,  while  Walpurga  takes 
off  her  hat  and  mantle. 

Walpurga. 


Armgart,  dear  Armgart  (kneeling  and  taking  her  hands)^ 
only  speak  to  me. 


"Armgart,  dear  Armgart,  only  speak  to  me." 


ARMGAET. 


343 


Your  poor  Walpurga.    Oli;  your  hands  are  cold- 
Clasp  mine,  and  warm  them  !    I  will  kiss  them  warm. 

(Armgart  looks  at  her  an  instant,  then  draws  away 
her  hands,  and,  turning  aside,  buries  her  face 
against  the  hack  of  the  chair,  Walpurga  rising 
and  standing  near.    Doctor  Grahn  enters,) 

Doctor. 

News  !  stirring  news  to-day !  wonders  come  thick. 

Armgart  (starting  up  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice, 

and  speaking  vehemently). 
Yes,  thick,  thick,  thick !  and  you  have  murdered  it ! 
Murdered  my  voice  —  poisoned  the  soul  in  me. 
And  kept  me  living. 

You  never  told  me  that  your  cruel  cures 

Were  clogging  films  —  a  mouldy,  deadening  blight  — 

A  lava-mud  to  crust  and  bury  me. 

Yet  hold  me  living  in  a  deep,  deep  tomb, 

Crying  unheard  forever  !    Oh,  your  cures 

Are  deviFs  triumphs :  you  can  rob,  maim,  slay, 

And  keep  a  hell  on  the  other  side  your  cure 

Where  you  can  see  your  victim  quivering 

Between  the  teeth  of  torture  —  see  a  soul 

Made  keen  by  loss  —  all  anguish  with  a  good 

Once  known  and  gone  ! 

{Turns  and  sinks  hack  on  her  chair.) 
0  misery,  misery ! 
You  might  have  killed  me,  might  have  let  me  sleep 
After  my  happy  day  and  wake  —  not  here  ! 
In  some  new  unremembered  world  —  not  here. 
Where  all  is  faded,  flat  —  a  feast  broke  off  — 
Banners  all  meaningless  —  exulting  words 
Dull,  dull  —  a  drum  that  lingers  in  the  air 
Beating  to  melody  which  no  man  hears. 


344 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Doctor  (ctfter  a  moments  silence), 

A  sudden  check  has  shaken  you,  poor  child ! 
All  things  seem  livid,  tottering  to  your  sense, 
From  inward  tumult.    Stricken  by  a  threat 
You  see  your  terrors  only.    Tell  me,  Leo : 
T  is  not  such  utter  loss. 

(Leo,  with  a  shrug,  goes  quietly  out.) 
The  freshest  bloom 
Merely,  has  left  the  fruit ;  the  fruit  itself  .... 

Armgart. 

Is  ruined,  withered,  is  a  thing  to  hide 

Away  from  scorn  or  pity.    Oh,  you  stand 

And  look  compassionate  now,  but  when  Death  came 

With  mercy  in  his  hands,  you  hindered  him. 

I  did  not  choose  to  live  and  have  your  pity. 

You  never  told  me,  never  gave  me  choice 

To  die  a  singer,  lightning-struck,  unmaimed, 

Or  live  what  you  would  make  me  with  your  cures  — 

A  self  accursed  with  consciousness  of  change, 

A  mind  that  lives  in  naught  but  members  lopped, 

A  power  turned  to  pain  —  as  meaningless 

As  letters  fallen  asunder  that  once  made 

A  hymn  of  rapture.    Oh,  I  had  meaning  once 

Like  day  and  sweetest  air.    What  am  I  now  ? 

The  millionth  woman  in  superfluous  herds. 

Why  should  I  be,  do,  think  ?    T  is  thistle-seed, 

That  grows  and  grows  to  feed  the  rubbish-heap. 

Leave  me  alone ! 

Doctor. 

Well,  I  will  come  again ; 
Send  for  me  when  you  will,  though  but  to  rate  me. 
That  is  medicinal  —  a  letting  blood. 


ARMGART. 


345 


Armgart. 
Ohj  there  is  one  physician,  only  one, 
Who  cures  and  never  spoils.    Him  I  shall  send  for ; 
He  conies  readily. 

Doctor  {to  Walpurga). 

One  word,  dear  Fraulein. 

SCEN^E  V. 
ARMGART,  WALPURGA. 
Armgart. 

Walpurga,  have  you  walked  this  morning  ? 
Walpurga, 

No. 

Armgart. 
Go,  then,  and  walk ;  I  wish  to  be  alone. 

Walpurga. 

I  will  not  leave  you. 

Armgart. 
Will  not,  at  my  wish  ? 

Walpurga. 
Will  not,  because  you  wish  it.    Say  no  more, 
But  take  this  draught. 

Armgart. 

The  Doctor  gave  it  you  ? 
It  is  an  anodyne.    Put  it  away. 
He  cured  me  of  my  voice,  and  now  he  wants 
To  cure  me  of  my  vision  and  resolve  — 


346  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Drug  me  to  sleep  that  I  may  wake  again 

Without  a  purpose,  abject  as  the  rest 

To  bear  the  yoke  of  life.    He  shall  not  cheat  me 

Of  that  fresh  strength  which  anguish  gives  the  soul, 

The  inspiration  of  revolt,  ere  rage 

Slackens  to  faltering.    Now  I  see  the  truth. 

Walpurga  {setting  down  the  glass). 

Then  you  must  see  a  future  in  your  reach, 
With  happiness  enough  to  make  a  dower 
For  two  of  modest  claims. 

Armgart. 

Oh,  you  intone 
That  chant  of  consolation  wherewith  ease 
Makes  itself  easier  in  the  sight  of  pain. 

Walpurga. 
No ;  I  would  not  console  you,  but  rebuke. 

Armgart. 

That  is  more  bearable.    Forgive  me,  dear. 
Say  what  you  will.    But  now  I  want  to  write. 

{She  rises  and  moves  toward  a  table.) 

Walpurga. 

I  say  then,  you  are  simply  fevered,  mad ; 
You  cry  aloud  at  horrors  that  would  vanish 
If  you  would  change  the  light,  throw  into  shade 
The  loss  you  aggrandize,  and  let  day  fall 
On  good  remaining,  nay  on  good  refused 
Which  may  be  gain  now.    Did  you  not  reject 
A  woman's  lot  more  brilliant,  as  some  held, 
Than  any  singer's  ?    It  may  still  be  yours. 
Graf  Dornberg  loved  you  well. 


AEMGART. 


347 


Armgart. 

Not  me,  not  me. 
He  loved  one  well  who  was  like  me  in  all 
Save  in  a  voice  wliicli  made  that  All  unlike 
As  diamond  is  to  charcoal.    Oh,  a  man's  love  ! 
Think  you  he  loves  a  woman's  inner  self 
Aching  with  loss  of  loveliness  ?  —  as  mothers 
Cleave  to  the  palpitating  pain  that  dwells 
Within  their  misf ormed  offspring  ? 

Walpurga. 

But  the  Graf 
Chose  you  as  simple  Armgart  —  had  preferred 
That  you  should  never  seek  for  any  fame 
But  such  as  matrons  have  who  rear  great  sons. 
And  therefore  you  rejected  him;  but  now  — 

Armgart. 

Ay,  now  —  now  he  would  see  me  as  I  am, 

{She  takes  up  a  hand-mirror!) 
Eusset  and  songless  as  a  missel-thrush. 
An  ordinary  girl  —  a  plain  brown  girl, 
Who,  if  some  meaning  flash  from  out  her  words, 
Shocks  as  a  disproportioned  thing  —  a  Will 
That,  like  an  arm  astretch  and  broken  off, 
Has  naught  to  hurl  —  the  torso  of  a  soul. 
I  sang  him  into  love  of  me :  my  song 
Was  consecration,  lifted  me  apart 
From  the  crowd  chiselled  like  me,  sister  forms, 
But  empty  of  divineness.    Nay,  my  charm 
Was  half  that  I  could  win  fame  yet  renounce 
A  wife  with  glory  possible  absorbed 
Into  her  husband's  actual. 

Walpurga. 

For  shame ! 

Armgart,  you  slander  him.    What  would  you  say 


348  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


If  now  lie  came  to  you  and  asked  again 
That  you  would  be  his  wife  ? 

Armgart. 

No,  and  thrice  no ! 
It  would  be  pitying  constancy,  not  love, 
That  brought  him  to  me  now.    I  will  not  be 
A  pensioner  in  marriage.  Sacraments 
Are  not  to  feed  the  paupers  of  the  world. 
If  he  were  generous  —  I  am  generous  too. 

Walpurga. 
Proud,  Armgart,  but  not  generous. 

Armgart. 


He  will  not  know  until  — 


Say  no  more. 


Walpurga. 

He  knows  already. 

Armgart  {quickly). 
Is  he  come  back  ? 

Walpurga, 

Yes,  and  will  soon  be  here. 
The  Doctor  had  twice  seen  him  and  would  go 
From  hence  again  to  see  him. 

Armgart. 

Well,  he  knows. 

It  is  all  one. 

Walpurga. 

What  if  he  were  outside  ? 
I  hear  a  footstep  in  the  ante-room. 


AKMGAET. 


349 


Armgart  (raising  herself  and  assuming  calmness). 
Why  let  him  come,  of  course.    I  shall  behave 
Like  what  I  am,  a  common  personage 
Who  looks  for  nothing  but  civility. 
I  shall  not  play  the  fallen  heroine, 
Assume  a  tragic  part  and  throw  out  cues 
For  a  beseeching  lover. 

Walpurga. 

Some  one  raps. 

{Goes  to  the  door,) 

A  letter  —  from  the  Graf. 

Armgart. 

Then  open  it. 
(W alpurga  still  offers  if) 
Nay,  my  head  swims.    Eead  it.    I  cannot  see. 

(Walpurga  opens  it,  reads  and  pauses.) 
Eead  it.    Have  done  !    No  matter  what  it  is. 

Walpurga  (reads  in  a  low,  hesitating  voice). 

"  I  am  deeply  moved  —  my  heart  is  rent,  to  hear  of 
your  illness  and  its  cruel  result,  just  now  communicated 
to  me  by  Dr.  Grahn.  But  surely  it  is  possible  that  this 
result  may  not  be  permanent.  For  youth  such  as  yours. 
Time  may  hold  in  store  something  more  than  resigna- 
tion :  who  shall  say  that  it  does  not  hold  renewal  ?  I 
have  not  dared  to  ask  admission  to  you  in  the  hours  of 
a  recent  shock,  but  I  cannot  depart  on  a  long  mission 
without  tendering  my  sympathy  and  my  farewell.  I 
start  this  evening  for  the  Caucasus,  and  thence  I  proceed 
to  India,  where  I  am  intrusted  by  the  Government  with 
business  which  may  be  of  long  duration.'^ 

(Walpurga  sits  down  dejectedly.) 


350  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Arm  G ART  (after  a  slight  shudder^  bitterly). 
The  Graf  has  mncli  discretion.    I  am  glad. 
He  spares  us  both  a  pain,  not  seeing  me. 
What  I  like  least  is  that  consoling  hope  — 
That  empty  cup,  so  neatly  ciphered  "  Time," 
Handed  me  as  a  cordial  for  despair. 
(^Slowly  and  dreamily)  Time  —  what  a  word  to  fling  as 
charity  ! 

Bland  neutral  word  for  slow,  dull-beating  pain  — 
Days,  months,  and  years  !  —  If  I  would  wait  for  them. 

(^She  takes  up  her  hat  and  puts  it  on,  then  wraps 

her  mantle  round  her.    Walpurga  leaves  the 

room.) 

Why,  this  is  but  beginning.  (Walpurga  rerenters.)  Kiss 
me,  dear. 

I  am  going  now  —  alone  —  out  —  for  a  walk. 
Say  you  will  never  wound  me  any  more 
With  such  cajolery  as  nurses  use 
To  patients  amorous  of  a  crippled  life. 
Flatter  the  blind :  I  see. 

Walpurga. 

Well,  I  was  wrong. 
In  haste  to  soothe,  I  snatched  at  flickers  merely. 
Believe  me,  I  will  flatter  you  no  more. 

Armgart. 

Bear  witness,  I  am  calm.    I  read  my  lot 
As  soberly  as  if  it  were  a  tale 
Writ  by  a  creeping  feuilletonist  and  called 
"  The  Woman's  Lot :  a  Tale  of  Everyday : 
A  middling  woman's,  to  impress  the  world 
With  high  superfluousness  ;  her  thoughts  a  crop 
Of  chick-weed  errors  or  of  pot-herb  facts. 
Smiled  at  like  some  child's  drawing  on  a  slate. 


AKMGART. 


351 


"  Genteel  ?  "    "  Oh  yes,  gives  lessons ;  not  so  good 

As  any  man's  would  be,  but  cheaper  far.'' 

"  Pretty  ?  "      No ;  yet  she  makes  a  figure  fit 

For  good  society.    Poor  thing,  she  sews 

Both  late  and  early,  turns  and  alters  all 

To  suit  the  changing  mode.    Some  widower 

Might  do  well,  marrying  her ;  but  in  these  days  ! .  .  . , 

Well,  she  can  somewhat  eke  her  narrow  gains 

By  writing,  just  to  furnish  her  with  gloves 

And  droschkies  in  the  rain.    They  print  her  things 

Often  for  charity."  —  Oh,  a  dog's  life  ! 

A  harnessed  dog's,  that  draws  a  little  cart 

Voted  a  nuisance  !    I  am  going  now. 

Walpurga. 
Not  now,  the  door  is  locked. 

Armgart. 

Give  me  the  key ! 

Walpurga. 

Locked  on  the  outside.    Gretchen  has  the  key : 
She  is  gone  on  errands. 

Armgart. 

What,  you  dare  to  keep  me 

Your  prisoner  ? 

Walpurga. 
And  have  I  not  been  yours  ? 
Your  wish  has  been  a  bolt  to  keep  me  in. 
Perhaps  that  middling  woman  whom  you  paint 
With  far-off  scorn .... 

Armgart. 

I  paint  what  I  must  be ! 
What  is  my  soul  to  me  without  the  voice 


852 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  gave  it  freedom  ?  —  gave  it  one  grand  touch 
And  made  it  nobly  human  ?  —  Prisoned  now, 
Prisoned  in  all  the  petty  mimicries 
Called  woman's  knowledge,  that  will  fit  the  world 
As  doll-clothes  fit  a  man.    I  can  do  naught 
Better  than  what  a  million  women  do  — 
Must  drudge  among  the  crowd  and  feel  my  life 
Beating  upon  the  world  without  response, 
Beating  with  passion  through  an  insect's  horn 
That  moves  a  millet-seed  laboriously. 
If  I  would  do  it ! 

Walpurga  {coldly). 
And  why  should  you  not  ? 

Armgart  {turning  quickly). 

Because  Heaven  made  me  royal  —  wrought  me  out 

With  subtle  finish  toward  pre-eminence, 

Made  every  channel  of  my  soul  converge 

To  one  high  function,  and  then  flung  me  down, 

That  breaking  I  might  turn  to  subtlest  pain. 

An  inborn  passion  gives  a  rebel's  right : 

I  would  rebel  and  die  in  twenty  worlds 

Sooner  than  bear  the  yoke  of  thwarted  life, 

Each  keenest  sense  turned  into  keen  distaste. 

Hunger  not  satisfied  but  kept  alive 

Breathing  in  languor  half  a  century. 

All  the  world  now  is  but  a  rack  of  threads 

To  twist  and  dwarf  me  into  pettiness 

And  basely  feigned  content,  the  placid  mask 

Of  women's  misery. 

Walpurga  {indignantly). 

Ay,  such  a  mask 
As  the  few  born  like  you  to  easy  joy. 


ARMGAET. 


853 


Cradled  in  privilege,  take  for  natural 

On  all  the  lowly  faces  that  must  look 

Upward  to  you !    What  revelation  now 

Shows  you  the  mask  or  gives  presentiment 

Of  sadness  hidden  ?    You  who  every  day 

These  five  years  saw  me  limp  to  wait  on  you, 

And  thought  the  order  perfect  which  gave  me^ 

The  girl  without  pretension  to  be  aught, 

A  splendid  cousin  for  my  happiness  : 

To  watch  the  night  through  when  her  brain  was  fired 

With  too  much  gladness  —  listen,  always  listen 

To  what  she  felt,  who  having  power  had  right 

To  feel  exorbitantly,  and  submerge 

The  souls  around  her  with  the  poured-out  flood 

Of  what  must  be  ere  she  was  satisfied ! 

That  was  feigned  patience,  was  it  ?    Why  not  love. 

Love  nurtured  even  with  that  strength  of  self 

Which  found  no  room  save  in  another's  life  ? 

Oh,  such  as  I  know  joy  by  negatives. 

And  all  their  deepest  passion  is  a  pang 

Till  they  accept  their  pauper's  heritage. 

And  meekly  live  from  out  the  general  store 

Of  joy  they  were  born  stripped  of.    I  accept  — 

Nay,  now  would  sooner  choose  it  than  the  wealth 

Of  natures  you  call  royal,  who  can  live 

In  mere  mock  knowledge  of  their  fellows'  woe, 

Thinking  their  smiles  may  heal  it. 

Armgart  (tremulously), 

Nay,  Walpurga, 

I  did  not  make  a  palace  of  my  joy 
To  shut  the  world's  truth  from  me.    All  my  good 
Was  that  I  touched  the  world  and  made  a  part 
In  the  world's  dower  of  beauty,  strength,  and  bliss  : 
It  was  the  glimpse  of  consciousness  divine 
23 


354  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Which,  pours  out  day  and  sees  the  day  is  good. 
Now  I  am  fallen  dark  j  I  sit  in  gloom, 
Eemembering  bitterly.    Yet  you  speak  truth ; 
I  wearied  you,  it  seems ;  took  all  your  help 
As  cushioned  nobles  use  a  weary  serf, 
Not  looking  at  his  face. 

Walpurga. 

Oh,  I  but  stand 
As  a  small  symbol  for  the  mighty  sum 
Of  claims  unpaid  to  needy  myriads ; 
I  think  you  never  set  your  loss  beside 
That  mighty  deficit.    Is  your  work  gone  — 
The  prouder  queenly  work  that  paid  itself 
And  yet  was  overpaid  with  men^s  applause  ? 
Are  you  no  longer  chartered,  privileged. 
But  sunk  to  simple  woman's  penury. 
To  ruthless  Nature's  chary  average  — 
Where  is  the  rebel's  right  for  you  alone  ? 
Noble  rebellion  lifts  a  common  load ; 
But  what  is  he  who  flings  his  own  load  off 
And  leaves  his  fellows  toiling  ?    Rebel's  right  ? 
Say  rather,  the  deserter's.    Oh,  you  smiled 
From  your  clear  height  on  all  the  million  lots 
Which  yet  you  brand  as  abject. 

Armgart. 

I  was  blind 

With  too  much  happiness  :  true  vision  comes 
Only,  it  seems,  with  sorrow.    Were  there  one 
This  moment  near  me,  suffering  what  I  feel, 
And  needing  me  for  comfort  in  her  pang  — 
Then  it  were  worth  the  while  to  live ;  not  else. 

Walpurga. 

One  —  near  you  —  why,  they  throng !  you  hardly  stir 
But  your  act  touches  them.    We  touch  afar. 


ARMGART. 


865 


For  did  not  swarthy  slaves  of  yesterday 

Leap  in  their  bondage  at  the  Hebrews'  flight, 

Which  touched  them  through  the  thrice  millennial  dark  ? 

But  you  can  find  the  sufferer  you  need 

With  touch  less  subtle. 

Armgart. 
Who  has  need  of  me  ? 

Walpurga. 
Love  finds  the  need  it  fills.    But  you  are  hard. 

Armgart. 
Is  it  not  you,  Walpurga,  who  are  hard  ? 
You  humored  all  my  wishes  till  to-day, 
When  fate  has  blighted  me. 

Walpurga. 

You  would  not  hear 
The    chant  of  consolation :  "  words  of  hope 
Only  imbittered  you.    Then  hear  the  truth  — 
A  lame  girl's  truth,  whom  no  one  ever  praised 
For  being  cheerful.    "  It  is  well,"  they  said : 
"  Were  she  cross-grained  she  could  not  be  endured.'' 
A  word  of  truth  from  her  had  startled  you ; 
But  you  —  you  claimed  the  universe  ;  naught  less 
Than  all  existence  working  in  sure  tracks 
Toward  your  supremacy.    The  wheels  might  scathe 
A  myriad  destinies  —  nay,  must  perforce ; 
But  yours  they  must  keep  clear  of ;  just  for  you 
The  seething  atoms  through  the  firmament 
Must  bear  a  human  heart  —  which  you  had  not ! 
For  what  is  it  to  you  that  women,  men, 
Plod,  faint,  are  weary,  and  espouse  despair 
Of  aught  but  fellowship  ?    Save  that  you  spurn 
To  be  among  them  ?    Now,  then,  you  are  lame  — 


356  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Maimed,  as  you  said,  and  levelled  with  the  crowd : 
Call  it  new  birth  —  birth  from  that  monstrous  Self 
Which,  smiling  down  upon  a  race  oppressed, 
Says,  "  All  is  good,  for  I  am  throned  at  ease/' 
Dear  Armgart  —  nay,  you  tremble  —  I  am  cruel. 

Armgart. 

Oh  no  !  hark  !    Some  one  knocks.    Come  in !  —  come  in ! 

{Enter  Leo.) 

Leo. 

See,  Gretchen  let  me  in.    I  could  not  rest 
Longer  away  from  you. 

Armgart. 
Sit  down,  dear  Leo. 
Walpurga,  I  would  speak  with  him  alone. 

(Walpurga  goes  out.) 

Leo  {hesitatingly). 
You  mean  to  walk  ? 

Armgart. 
No,  I  shall  stay  within. 
{She  takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle,  and  sits  down 
immediately.    After  a  pause,  speaking  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  to  Leo.) 
How  old  are  you  ? 

Leo. 

Threescore  and  five. 
Armgart. 

That's  old. 

I  never  thought  till  now  how  you  have  lived. 
They  hardly  ever  play  your  music  ? 


AEMGART. 


357 


Leo  {raising  his  eyebrows  and  throwing  out  his  lip), 

No! 

Schubert  too  wrote  for  silence :  half  his  work 
Lay  like  a  frozen  Ehine  till  summers  came 
That  warmed  the  grass  above  him.    Even  so ! 
His  music  lives  now  with  a  mighty  youth. 

Armgart. 

Do  you  think  yours  will  live  when  you  are  dead  ? 

Leo. 

Pfui !    The  time  was^  I  drank  that  home-brewed  wine 
And  found  it  heady,  while  my  blood  was  young : 
Now  it  scarce  warms  me.    Tipple  it  as  I  may, 
I  am  sober  still,  and  say :    My  old  friend  Leo, 
Much  grain  is  wasted  in  the  world  and  rots ; 
Why  not  thy  handful  ? 

Armgart. 

Strange  !  since  I  have  known  you 
Till  now  I  never  wondered  how  you  lived. 
When  I  sang  well  —  that  was  your  jubilee. 
But  you  were  old  already. 

Leo, 

Yes,  child,  yes : 
Youth  thinks  itself  the  goal  of  each  old  life ; 
Age  has  but  travelled  from  a  far-off  time 
Just  to  be  ready  for  youth's  service.    Well ! 
It  was  my  chief  delight  to  perfect  you. 

Armgart. 

Good  Leo  !  You  have  lived  on  little  joys. 
But  your  delight  in  me  is  crushed  forever. 
Your  pains,  where  are  they  now  ?    They  shaped  intent 


358  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Which  action  frustrates ;  shaped  an  inward  sense 
Which  is  but  keen  despair,  the  agony 
Of  highest  vision  in  the  lowest  pit. 

Leo. 

Nay,  nay,  I  have  a  thought :  keep  to  the  stage, 
To  drama  without  song ;  for  you  can  act  — 
Who  knows  how  well,  when  all  the  soul  is  poured 
Into  that  sluice  alone. 

Armgart. 

I  know,  and  you : 
The  second  or  third  best  in  tragedies 
That  cease  to  touch  the  fibre  of  the  time. 
No ;  song  is  gone,  but  nature's  other  gift, 
Self-judgment,  is  not  gone.    Song  was  my  speech, 
And  with  its  impulse  only,  action  came  : 
Song  was  the  battle's  onset,  when  cool  purpose 
Glows  into  rage,  becomes  a  warring  god 
And  moves  the  limbs  with  miracle.    But  now  — 
Oh,  I  should  stand  hemmed  in  with  thoughts  and  rules  — 
Say,  "  This  way  passion  acts,''  yet  never  feel 
The  might  of  passion.    How  should  I  declaim  ? 
As  monsters  write  with  feet  instead  of  hands. 
I  will  not  feed  on  doing  great  tasks  ill, 
Dull  the  world's  sense  with  mediocrity, 
And  live  by  trash  that  smothers  excellence. 
One  gift  I  had  that  ranked  me  with  the  best  — 
The  secret  of  my  frame  —  and  that  is  gone. 
For  all  life  now  I  am  a  broken  thing. 
But  silence  there  !    Good  Leo,  advise  me  now. 
I  would  take  humble  work  and  do  it  well  — 
Teach  music,  singing  —  what  I  can  —  not  here, 
But  in  some  smaller  town  where  I  may  bring 
The  method  you  have  taught  me,  pass  your  gift 


AKMGART. 


359 


To  others  wlio  can  use  it  for  deliglit. 
You  think  I  can  do  that  ? 

{She pauses  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.) 

Leo. 

Yes^  yes,  dear  child  ! 
And  it  were  well,  perhaps,  to  change  the  place  — 
Begin  afresh  as  I  did  when  I  left 
Vienna  with  a  heart  half  broken. 

Akmgart  (roused  hy  surprise). 

You? 

Leo. 

Well,  it  is  long  ago.    But  I  had  lost  — 
No  matter  !    We  must  bury  our  dead  joys 
And  live  above  them  with  a  living  world. 
But  whither,  think  you,  you  would  like  to  go  ? 

Armgart. 

To  Freiburg. 

Leo. 

In  the  Breisgau  ?   And  why  there  ? 
It  is  too  small. 

Arm  G  ART. 
Walpurga  was  born  there, 
And  loves  the  place.    She  quitted  it  for  me 
These  five  years  past.    Now  I  will  take  her  there. 
Dear  Leo,  I  will  bury  my  dead  joy. 

Leo. 

Mothers  do  so,  bereaved ;  then  learn  to  love 
Another's  living  child. 

Armgart. 

Oh,  it  is  hard 
To  take  the  little  corpse,  and  lay  it  low, 


360  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  say^  "  None  misses  it  but  me.'^ 
She  sings  .... 

I  mean  Paulina  sings  Pidelio, 

And  they  will  welcome  her  to-night. 

Leo. 

Well,  well, 

is  better  that  our  griefs  should  not  spread  far. 


1870. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


SIX  hundred  years  ago,  in  Dante's  time, 
Before  his  cheek  was  furrowed  by  deep  rhyme  — 
When  Europe,  fed  afresh  from  Eastern  story, 
Was  like  a  garden  tangled  with  the  glory 
Of  flowers  hand-planted  and  of  flowers  air-sown, 
Climbing  and  trailing,  budding  and  full-blown. 
Where  purple  bells  are  tossed  amid  pink  stars, 
And  springing  blades,  green  troops  in  innocent  wars, 
Crowd  every  shady  spot  of  teeming  earth. 
Making  invisible  motion  visible  birth  — 
Six  hundred  years  ago,  Palermo  town 
Kept  holiday.    A  deed  of  great  renown, 
A  high  revenge,  had  freed  it  from  the  yoke 
Of  hated  Frenchmen,  and  from  Calpe's  rock 
To  where  the  Bosporus  caught  the  earlier  sun, 
^T  was  told  that  Pedro,  King  of  Aragon, 
Was  welcomed  master  of  all  Sicily, 
A  royal  knight,  supreme  as  kings  should  be 
In  strength  and  gentleness  that  make  high  chivalry. 

Spain  was  the  favorite  home  of  knightly  grace, 
Where  generous  men  rode  steeds  of  generous  race  ; 
Both  Spanish,  yet  half  Arab,  both  inspired 
By  mutual  spirit,  that  each  motion  fired 
With  beauteous  response,  like  minstrelsy 
Afresh  fulfilling  fresh  expectancy. 
So  when  Palermo  made  high  festival, 
The  joy  of  matrons  and  of  maidens  all 


862  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


Was  the  mock  terror  of  the  tournament, 

Where  safety,  with  the  glimpse  of  danger  blent, 

Took  exaltation  as  from  epic  song, 

Which  greatly  tells  the  pains  that  to  great  life  belong. 

And  in  all  eyes  King  Pedro  was  the  king 

Of  cavaliers  :  as  in  a  full-gemmed  ring 

The  largest  ruby,  or  as  that  bright  star 

Whose  shining  shows  us  where  the  Hyads  are. 

His  the  best  jennet,  and  he  sat  it  best ; 

His  weapon,  whether  tilting  or  in  rest. 

Was  worthiest  watching,  and  his  face  once  seen 

Gave  to  the  promise  of  his  royal  mien 

Such  rich  fulfilment  as  the  opened  eyes 

Of  a  loved  sleeper,  or  the  long-watched  rise 

Of  vernal  day,  whose  joy  o'er  stream  and  meadow  flies. 

But  of  the  maiden  forms  that  thick  enwreathed 

The  broad  piazza  and  sweet  witchery  breathed, 

With  innocent  faces  budding  all  arow 

Prom  balconies  and  windows  high  and  low, 

Who  was  it  felt  the  deep  mysterious  glow, 

The  impregnation  with  supernal  fire 

Of  young  ideal  love  —  transformed  desire. 

Whose  passion  is  but  worship  of  that  Best 

Taught  by  the  many-mingled  creed  of  each  young  breast  ? 

'T  was  gentle  Lisa,  of  no  noble  line. 

Child  of  Bernardo,  a  rich  Plorentine, 

Who  from  his  merchant-city  hither  came 

To  trade  in  drugs ;  yet  kept  an  honest  fame, 

And  had  the  virtue  not  to  try  and  sell 

Drugs  that  had  none.    He  loved  his  riches  well, 

But  loved  them  chiefly  for  his  Lisa's  sake. 

Whom  with  a  father's  care  he  sought  to  make 

The  bride  of  some  true  honorable  man : 

Of  Perdicone  (so  the  rumor  ran). 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  363 


Whose  birth,  was  higher  than  his  fortunes  were ; 
For  still  your  trader  likes  a  mixture  fair 
Of  blood  that  hurries  to  some  higher  strain 
Than  reckoning  money's  loss  and  money's  gain. 
And  of  such  mixture  good  may  surely  come : 
Lords'  scions  so  may  learn  to  cast  a  sum, 
A  trader's  grandson  bear  a  well-set  head, 
And  have  less  conscious  manners,  better  bred ; 
Nor,  when  he  tries  to  be  polite,  be  rude  instead. 

'T  was  Perdicone's  friends  made  overtures 

To  good  Bernardo :  so  one  dame  assures 

Her  neighbor  dame  who  notices  the  youth 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  Lisa  ;  and  in  truth 

Eyes  that  could  see  her  on  this  summer  day 

Might  find  it  hard  to  turn  another  way. 

She  had  a  pensive  beauty,  yet  not  sad ; 

Rather,  like  minor  cadences  that  glad 

The  hearts  of  little  birds  amid  spring  boughs ; 

And  oft  the  trumpet  or  the  joust  would  rouse 

Pulses  that  gave  her  cheek  a  finer  glow, 

Parting  her  lips  that  seemed  a  mimic  bow 

By  chiselling  Love  for  play  in  coral  wrought, 

Then  quickened  by  him  with  the  passionate  thought^ 

The  soul  that  trembled  in  the  lustrous  night 

Of  slow  long  eyes.    Her  body  was  so  slight. 

It  seemed  she  could  have  floated  in  the  sky, 

And  with  the  angelic  choir  made  symphony  ; 

But  in  her  cheek's  rich  tinge,  and  in  the  dark 

Of  darkest  hair  and  eyes,  she  bore  a  mark 

Of  kinship  to  her  generous  mother  earth, 

The  fervid  land  that  gives  the  plumy  palm-trees  birth. 

She  saw  not  Perdicone  ;  her  young  mind 
Dreamed  not  that  any  man  had  ever  pined 


364  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


For  such  a  little  simple  maid  as  she : 

She  had  but  dreamed  how  heavenly  it  would  be 

To  love  some  hero  noble,  beauteous,  great, 

Who  would  live  stories  worthy  to  narrate, 

Like  Eoland,  or  the  warriors  of  Troy, 

The  Cid,  or  Amadis,  or  that  fair  boy 

Who  conquered  everything  beneath  the  sun, 

And  somehow,  some  time,  died  at  Babylon 

Fighting  the  Moors.    For  heroes  all  were  good 

And  fair  as  that  archangel  who  withstood 

The  Evil  One,  the  author  of  all  wrong  — 

That  Evil  One  who  made  the  French  so  strong ; 

And  now  the  flower  of  heroes  must  be  he 

Who  drove  those  tyrants  from  dear  Sicily, 

So  that  her  maids  might  walk  to  vespers  tranquilly. 

Young  Lisa  saw  this  hero  in  the  king. 

And  as  wood-lilies  that  sweet  odors  bring 

Might  dream  the  light  that  opes  their  modest  eyne 

Was  lily-odored  —  and  as  rites  divine, 

Eound  turf -laid  altars,  or  'neath  roofs  of  stone^ 

Draw  sanctity  from  out  the  heart  alone 

That  loves  and  worships,  so  the  miniature 

Perplexed  of  her  soul's  world,  all  virgin  pure, 

Filled  with  heroic  virtues  that  bright  form, 

Eaona's  royalty,  the  finished  norm 

Of  horsemanship  —  the  half  of  chivalry : 

For  how  could  generous  men  avengers  be, 

Save  as  God's  messengers  on  coursers  fleet  ?  — 

These,  scouring  earth,  made  Spain  with  Syria  meet 

In  one  self  world  where  the  same  right  had  sway, 

And  good  must  grow  as  grew  the  blessed  day. 

No  more ;  great  Love  his  essence  had  endued 

With  Pedro's  form,  and  entering  subdued 

The  soul  of  Lisa,  fervid  and  intense, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  365 


Proud  in  its  choice  of  proud  obedience 
To  hardship  glorified  by  perfect  reverence. 

Sweet  Lisa  homeward  carried  that  dire  guest, 
And  in  her  chamber  through  the  hours  of  rest 
The  darkness  was  alight  for  her  with  sheen 
Of  arms,  and  plumed  helm,  and  bright  between 
Their  commoner  gloss,  like  the  pure  living  spring 
^Twixt  porphyry  lips,  or  living  bird's  bright  wing 
'Twixt  golden  wires,  the  glances  of  the  king 
Flashed  on  her  soul,  and  waked  vibrations  there 
Of  known  delights  love-mixed  to  new  and  rare : 
The  impalpable  dream  was  turned  to  breathing  flesh, 
Chill  thought  of  summer  to  the  warm  close  mesh 
Of  sunbeams  held  between  the  citron-leaves, 
Clothing  her  life  of  life.    Oh,  she  believes 
That  she  could  be  content  if  he  but  knew 
(Her  poor  small  self  could  claim  no  other  due) 
How  Lisa's  lowly  love  had  highest  reach 
Of  winged  passion,  whereto  winged  speech 
Would  be  scorched  remnants  left  by  mountain  flame. 
Though,  had  she  such  lame  message,  were  it  blame 
To  tell  what  greatness  dwelt  in  her,  what  rank 
She  held  in  loving  ?    Modest  maidens  shrank 
From  telling  love  that  fed  on  selfish  hope ; 
But  love,  as  hopeless  as  the  shattering  song 
Wailed  for  loved  beings  who  have  joined  the  throng 

Of  mighty  dead  ones  ^ay,  but  she  was  weak  — 

Knew  only  prayers  and  ballads  —  could  not  speak 
With  eloquence  save  what  dumb  creatures  have, 
That  with  small  cries  and  touches  small  boons  crave. 
She  watched  all  day  that  she  might  see  him  pass 
With  knights  and  ladies ;  but  she  said,  "  Alas  I 
Though  he  should  see  me,  it  were  all  as  one 
He  saw  a  pigeon  sitting  on  the  stone 


366  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  wall  or  balcony :  some  colored  spot 

His  eye  just  sees,  liis  mind  regardeth  not. 

I  have  no  music-touch  that  could  bring  nigh 

My  love  to  his  soul's  hearing.    I  shall  die, 

And  he  will  never  know  who  Lisa  was  — 

The  trader's  child,  whose  soaring  spirit  rose 

As  hedge-born  aloe-flowers  that  rarest  years  disclose. 

"  For  were  I  now  a  fair  deep-breasted  queen 

A-horseback,  with  blonde  hair,  and  tunic  green 

Gold-bordered,  like  Costanza,  I  should  need 

No  change  within  to  make  me  queenly  there ; 

For  they  the  royal-hearted  women  are 

Who  nobly  love  the  noblest,  yet  have  grace 

For  needy  suffering  lives  in  lowliest  place, 

Carrying  a  choicer  sunlight  in  their  smile, 

The  heavenliest  ray  that  pitieth  the  vile. 

My  love  is  such,  it  cannot  choose  but  soar 

Up  to  the  highest ;  yet  forevermore, 

Though  I  were  happy,  throned  beside  the  king, 

I  should  be  tender  to  each  little  thing 

With  hurt  warm  breast,  that  had  no  speech  to  tell 

Its  inward  pang,  and  I  would  soothe  it  well 

With  tender  touch  and  with  a  low  soft  moan 

For  company  :  my  dumb  love-pang  is  lone. 

Prisoned  as  topaz-beam  within  a  rough-garbed  stone." 

So,  inward-wailing,  Lisa  passed  her  days. 

Each  night  the  August  moon  with  changing  phase 

Looked  broader,  harder  on  her  unchanged  pain ; 

Each  noon  the  heat  lay  heavier  again 

On  her  despair ;  until  her  body  frail 

Shrank  like  the  snow  that  watchers  in  the  vale 

See  narrowed  on  the  height  each  summer  morn ; 

While  her  dark  glance  burnt  larger,  more  forlorn, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KESTG. 


As  if  the  soul  within  her  all  on  fire 
Made  of  her  being  one  swift  funeral  pyre. 
Father  and  mother  saw  with  sad  dismay 
The  meaning  of  their  riches  melt  away : 
For  without  Lisa  what  would  sequins  buy  ? 
What  wish  were  left  if  Lisa  were  to  die  ? 
Through  her  they  cared  for  summers  still  to  come, 
Else  they  would  be  as  ghosts  without  a  home 
In  any  flesh  that  could  feel  glad  desire. 
They  pay  the  best  physicians,  never  tire 
Of  seeking  what  will  soothe  her,  promising 
That  aught  she  longed  for,  though  it  were  a  thing 
Hard  to  be  come  at  as  the  Indian  snow, 
Or  roses  that  on  Alpine  summits  blow  — 
It  should  be  hers.    She  answers  with  low  voice, 
She  longs  for  death  alone  —  death  is  her  choice ; 
Death  is  the  King  who  never  did  think  scorn, 
But  rescues  every  meanest  soul  to  sorrow  born. 

Yet  one  day,  as  they  bent  above  her  bed 

And  watched  her  in  brief  sleep,  her  drooping  head 

Turned  gently,  as  the  thirsty  flowers  that  feel 

Some  moist  revival  through  their  petals  steal, 

And  little  flutterings  of  her  lids  and  lips 

Told  of  such  dreamy  joy  as  sometimes  dips 

A  skyey  shadow  in  the  mind's  poor  pool. 

She  oped  her  eyes,  and  turned  their  dark  gems  full 

Upon  her  father,  as  in  utterance  dumb 

Of  some  new  prayer  that  in  her  sleep  had  come. 

"  What  is  it,  Lisa  ?      "  Father,  I  would  see 

Minuccio,  the  great  singer ;  bring  him  me.'' 

For  always,  night  and  day,  her  unstilled  thought, 

Wandering  all  o'er  its  little  world,  had  sought 

How  she  could  reach,  by  some  soft  pleading  touch. 

King  Pedro's  soul,  that  she  who  loved  so  much 


368  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Dying,  might  have  a  place  within  his  mind  — 
A  little  grave  which  he  would  sometimes  find 
And  plant  some  flower  on  it  —  some  thought,  some  mem- 
ory kind, 
Till  in  her  dream  she  saw  Minuccio 
Touching  his  viola,  and  chanting  low 
A  strain  that,  falling  on  her  brokenly, 
Seemed  blossoms  lightly  blown  from  off  a  tree, 
Each  burdened  with  a  word  that  was  a  scent  — 
Raona,  Lisa,  love,  death,  tournament ; 
Then  in  her  dream  she  said,  "  He  sings  of  me  — 
Might  be  my  messenger ;  ah,  now  I  see 
The  king  is  listening  —      Then  she  awoke. 
And,  missing  her  dear  dream,  that  new-born  longing  spoke. 

She  longed  for  music :  that  was  natural ; 

Physicians  said  it  was  medicinal ; 

The  humors  might  be  schooled  by  true  consent 

Of  a  fine  tenor  and  fine  instrument ; 

In  brief,  good  music,  mixed  with  doctor's  stuff, 

Apollo  with  Asklepios  —  enough ! 

Minuccio,  entreated,  gladly  came. 

(He  was  a  singer  of  most  gentle  fame  — 

A  noble,  kindly  spirit,  not  elate 

That  he  was  famous,  but  the  song  was  great  — 

Would  sing  as  finely  to  this  suffering  child 

As  at  the  court  where  princes  on  him  smiled.) 

Gently  he  entered  and  sat  down  by  her, 

Asking  what  sort  of  strain  she  would  prefer  — 

The  voice  alone,  or  voice  with  viol  wed ; 

Then,  when  she  chose  the  last,  he  preluded 

With  magic  hand,  that  summoned  from  the  strings 

Aerial  spirits,  rare  yet  vibrant  wings 

That  fanned  the  pulses  of  his  listener, 

And  waked  each  sleeping  sense  with  blissful  stir. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  369 


Her  clieek  already  showed  a  slow  faint  blush, 
But  soon  the  voice,  in  pure  full  liquid  rush, 
Made  all  the  passion,  that  till  now  she  felt. 
Seem  but  cool  waters  that  in  warmer  melt. 
Finished  the  song,  she  prayed  to  be  alone 
With  kind  Minuccio ;  for  her  faith  had  grown 
To  trust  him  as  if  missioned  like  a  priest 
With  some  high  grace,  that  when  his  singing  ceased 
Still  made  him  wiser,  more  magnanimous 
Than  common  men  who  had  no  genius. 

So  laying  her  small  hand  within  his  palm, 

She  told  him  how  that  secret  glorious  harm 

Of  loftiest  loving  had  befallen  her ; 

That  death,  her  only  hope,  most  bitter  were, 

If  when  she  died  her  love  must  perish  too 

As  songs  unsung  and  thoughts  unspoken  do, 

Which  else  might  live  within  another  breast. 

She  said,    Minuccio,  the  grave  were  rest, 

If  I  were  sure,  that  lying  cold  and  lone. 

My  love,  my  best  of  life,  had  safely  flown 

And  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  king ; 

See,  't  is  a  small  weak  bird,  with  unfledged  wing. 

But  you  will  carry  it  for  me  secretly, 

And  bear  it  to  the  king,  then  come  to  me 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  and  I  shall  go 

Content,  knowing  that  he  I  love  my  love  doth  know.'^ 

Then  she  wept  silently,  but  each  large  tear 
Made  pleading  music  to  the  inward  ear 
Of  good  Minuccio.      Lisa,  trust  in  me," 
He  said,  and  kissed  her  fingers  loyally ; 
"  It  is  sweet  law  to  me  to  do  your  will. 
And  ere  the  sun  his  round  shall  thrice  fulfil, 
I  hope  to  bring  you  news  of  such  rare  skill 
24 


370 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


As  amulets  have,  that  aches  in  trusting  bosoms  still/^ 

He  needed  not  to  pause  and  first  devise 

How  he  should  tell  the  king ;  for  in  nowise 

Were  such  love-message  worthily  bested 

Save  in  fine  verse  by  music  rendered. 

He  sought  a  poet-friend,  a  Siennese, 

And  "  Mico,  mine/^  he  said,  "  full  oft  to  please 

Thy  whim  of  sadness  I  have  sung  thee  strains 

To  make  thee  weep  in  verse  :  now  pay  my  pains, 

And  write  me  a  canzon  divinely  sad, 

Sinlessly  passionate  and  meekly  mad 

With  young  despair,  speaking  a  maiden's  heart 

Of  fifteen  summers,  who  would  fain  depart 

From  ripening  life's  new-urgent  mystery  — 

Love-choice  of  one  too  high  her  love  to  be  — 

But  ca,nnot  yield  her  breath  till  she  has  poured 

Her  strength  away  in  this  hot-bleeding  word 

Telling  the  secret  of  her  soul  to  her  soul's  lord.'^ 

Said  Mico,  "  Nay,  that  thought  is  poesy, 

I  need  but  listen  as  it  sings  to  me. 

Come  thou  again  to-morrow."    The  third  day, 

When  linked  notes  had  perfected  the  lay, 

Minuccio  had  his  summons  to  the  court 

To  make,  as  he  was  wont,  the  moments  short 

Of  ceremonious  dinner  to  the  king. 

This  was  the  time  when  he  had  meant  to  bring 

Melodious  message  of  young  Lisa's  love  : 

He  waited  till  the  air  had  ceased  to  move 

To  ringing  silver,  till  Falernian  wine 

Made  quickened  sense  with  quietude  combine. 

And  then  with  passionate  descant  made  each  ear  incline. 

Love,  thou  didst  see  me,  light  as  morning^ s  breathy 
Roaming  a  garden  in  a  joyous  error, 
Laughing  at  chases  vain,  a  haj^jpy  child^ 


HOW  LISA  LOYED  THE  KING. 


Till  of  thy  countenance  the  alluring  terror 
In  majesty  from  out  the  blossoms  smiled, 
From  out  their  life  seeming  a  beauteous  Death, 

0  Love,  who  so  didst  choose  me  for  thine  own, 

Taking  this  little  isle  to  thy  great  sway, 

See  now,  it  is  the  honor  of  thy  throne 

That  what  thou  gavest  perish  not  away, 

Nor  leave  some  sweet  remembrance  to  atone 

By  life  that  will  be  for  the  brief  life  gone : 

Hear,  ere  the  shroud  o^er  these  frail  limbs  be  thrown 

Since  every  king  is  vassal  unto  thee, 

My  hearths  lord  needs  must  listen  loyally  — 

Oh  tell  him  I  am  waiting  for  my  Death  ! 

Tell  him,  for  that  he  hath  such  royal  power 
^Twere  hard  for  him  to  think  how  small  a  thing, 
How  slight  a  sign,  would  make  a  wealthy  dower 
For  one  like  me,  the  bride  of  that  pale  king 
Whose  bed  is  mine  at  some  swift-bearing  hour. 
Go  to  my  lord,  and  to  his  memory  bring 
That  happy  birthday  of  my  sorrowing 
When  his  large  glance  made  meaner  gazers  glady 
Entering  the  bannered  lists  :  H  was  then  I  had 
The  wound  that  laid  me  in  the  arms  of  Death, 

Tell  him,  0  Love,  I  am  a  lowly  maid, 
No  more  than  any  little  knot  of  thyme 
That  he  with  careless  foot  may  often  tread; 
Yet  lowest  fragrance  oft  will  mount  sublime 
And  cleave  to  things  most  high  and  hallowed. 
As  doth  the  fragrance  of  my  lifers  springtime, 
My  lowly  love,  that  soaring  seeks  to  climb 
Within  his  thought,  and  make  a  gentle  blisSp 
More  blissful  than  if  mine,  iii  being  his : 
So  shall  I  live  in  him  and  rest  in  Death, 


S72  POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


The  strain  was  new.    It  seemed  a  pleading  cry, 

And  yet  a  rounded  perfect  melody, 

Making  grief  beauteous  as  the  tear-filled  eyes 

Of  little  child  at  little  miseries. 

Trembling  at  first,  then  swelling  as  it  rose, 

Like  rising  light  that  broad  and  broader  grows, 

It  filled  the  hall,  and  so  possessed  the  air 

That  not  one  breathing  soul  was  present  there, 

Though  dullest,  slowest,  but  was  quivering 

In  music's  grasp,  and  forced  to  hear  her  sing. 

But  most  such  sweet  compulsion  took  the  mood 

Of  Pedro  (tired  of  doing  what  he  would). 

Whether  the  words  which  that  strange  meaning  bore 

Were  but  the  poet's  feigning  or  aught  more, 

Was  bounden  question,  since  their  aim  must  be 

At  some  imagined  or  true  royalty. 

He  called  Minuccio  and  bade  him  tell 

What  poet  of  the  day  had  writ  so  well ; 

For  though  they  came  behind  all  former  rhymes. 

The  verses  were  not  bad  for  these  poor  times. 

"  Monsignor,  they  are  only  three  days  old,'' 

Minuccio  said ;  "  but  it  must  not  be  told 

How  this  song  grew,  save  to  your  royal  ear." 

Eager,  the  king  withdrew  where  none  was  near. 

And  gave  close  audience  to  Minuccio, 

Who  meetly  told  that  love-tale  meet  to  know. 

The  king  had  features  pliant  to  confess 

The  presence  of  a  manly  tenderness  — 

Son,  father,  brother,  lover,  blent  in  one. 

In  fine  harmonic  exaltation  — 

The  spirit  of  religious  chivalry. 

He  listened,  and  Minuccio  could  see 

The  tender,  generous  admiration  spread 

O'er  all  his  face,  and  glorify  his  head 

With  royalty  that  would  have  kept  its  rank 


HOW  LISA  LOYED  THE  KmG. 


Though  his  brocaded  robes  to  tatters  shrank. 

He  answered  without  pause,  "  So  sweet  a  maid, 

In  nature's  own  insignia  arrayed, 

Though  she  were  come  of  unmixed  trading  blood 

That  sold  and  bartered  ever  since  the  Elood, 

Would  have  the  self-contained  and  single  worth 

Of  radiant  jewels  born  in  darksome  earth. 

Eaona  were  a  shame  to  Sicily, 

Letting  such  love  and  tears  unhonored  be : 

Hasten,  Minuccio,  tell  her  that  the  king 

To-day  will  surely  visit  her  when  vespers  ring.^^ 

Joyful,  Minuccio  bore  the  joyous  word. 

And  told  at  full,  while  none  but  Lisa  heard, 

How  each  thing  had  befallen,  sang  the  song, 

And  like  a  patient  nurse  who  would  prolong 

All  means  of  soothing,  dwelt  upon  each  tone, 

Each  look,  with  which  the  mighty  Aragon 

Marked  the  high  worth  his  royal  heart  assigned 

To  that  dear  place  he  held  in  Lisa's  mind. 

She  listened  till  the  draughts  of  pure  content 

Through  all  her  limbs  like  some  new  being  went  — 

Life,  not  recovered,  but  untried  before. 

From  out  the  growing  world's  unmeasured  store 

Of  fuller,  better,  more  divinely  mixed. 

'T  was  glad  reverse  :  she  had  so  firmly  fixed 

To  die,  already  seemed  to  fall  a  veil 

Shrouding  the  inner  glow  from  light  of  senses  pale. 

Her  parents  wondering  see  her  half  arise  — 

Wondering,  rejoicing,  see  her  long  dark  eyes 

Brimful  with  clearness,  not  of  'scaping  tears, 

But  of  some  light  ethereal  that  enspheres 

Their  orbs  with  calm,  some  vision  newly  learnt 

Where  strangest  fires  erewhile  had  blindly  burnt. 

She  asked  to  have  her  soft  white  robe  and  band 


374  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  coral  ornaments,  and  with  her  hand 
She  gave  her  locks'  dark  length  a  backward  fall; 
Then  looked  intently  in  a  mirror  small, 
And  feared  her  face  might  perhaps  displease  the  king ; 
^^In  truth/'  she  said,  "I  am  a  tiny  thing; 
I  was  too  bold  to  tell  what  conld  such  visit  bring." 
Meanwhile  the  king,  revolving  in  his  thought 
That  virgin  passion,  was  more  deeply  wrought 
To  chivalrous  pity ;  and  at  vesper  bell. 
With  careless  mien  which  hid  his  purpose  well, 
Went  forth  on  horseback,  and  as  if  by  chance 
Passing  Bernardo's  house,  he  paused  to  glance 
At  the  fine  garden  of  this  wealthy  man, 
This  Tuscan  trader  turned  Palermitan : 
But,  presently  dismounting,  chose  to  walk 
Amid  the  trellises,  in  gracious  talk 
With  the  same  trader,  deigning  even  to  ask 
If  he  had  yet  fulfilled  the  father's  task 
Of  marrying  that  daughter  whose  young  charms 
Himself,  betwixt  the  passages  of  arms, 
Noted  admiringly.    "  Monsignor,  no. 
She  is  not  married ;  that  were  little  woe, 
Since  she  has  counted  barely  fifteen  years ; 
But  all  such  hopes  of  late  have  turned  to  fears ; 
She  droops  and  fades ;  though  for  a  space  quite  brief  — 
Scarce  three  hours  past —  she  finds  some  strange  relief." 
The  king  avised  :  "  'T  were  dole  to  all  of  us. 
The  world  should  lose  a  maid  so  beauteous ; 
Let  me  now  see  her ;  since  I  am  her  liege  lord, 
Her  spirits  must  wage  war  with  death  at  my  strong 
word.'^ 

In  such  half-serious  playfulness,  he  wends, 
With  Lisa's  father  and  two  chosen  friends. 
Up  to  the  chamber  where  she  pillowed  sits 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


375 


Watching  the  open  door,  that  now  admits 

A  presence  as  much  better  than  her  dreams, 

As  happiness  than  any  longing  seems. 

The  king  advanced,  and,  with  a  reverent  kiss 

Upon  her  hand,  said,  "  Lady,  what  is  this  ? 

You,  whose  sweet  youth  should  others'  solace  be, 

Pierce  all  our  hearts,  languishing  piteously. 

We  pray  you,  for  the  love  of  us,  be  cheered, 

Nor  be  too  reckless  of  that  life,  endeared 

To  us  who  know  your  passing  worthiness. 

And  count  your  blooming  life  as  part  of  our  life's  bliss." 

Those  words,  that  touch  upon  her  hand  from  him 

Whom  her  soul  worshipped,  as  far  seraphim 

Worship  the  distant  glory,  brought  some  shame 

Quivering  upon  her  cheek,  yet  thrilled  her  frame 

With  such  deep  joy  she  seemed  in  paradise, 

In  wondering  gladness,  and  in  dumb  surprise 

That  bliss  could  be  so  blissful :  then  she  spoke  — 

"  Signer,  I  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  yoke. 

The  golden  yoke  of  thoughts  too  great  for  me ; 

That  was  the  ground  of  my  infirmity. 

But  now,  I  pray  your  grace  to  have  belief 

That  I  shall  soon  be  well,  nor  any  more  cause  grief.'^ 

The  king  alone  perceived  the  covert  sense 
Of  all  her  words,  which  made  one  evidence 
AVith  her  pure  voice  and  candid  loveliness, 
That  he  had  lost  much  honor,  honoring  less 
That  message  of  her  passionate  distress. 
He  stayed  beside  her  for  a  little  while 
With  gentle  looks  and  speech,  until  a  smile 
As  placid  as  a  ray  of  early  morn 
On  opening  flower-cups  o'er  her  lips  was  borne. 
When  he  had  left  her,  and  the  tidings  spread 
Through  all  the  town  how  he  had  visited 


876  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  Tuscan  trader's  daughter,  who  was  sick, 
Men  said,  it  was  a  royal  deed  and  catholic. 

And  Lisa  ?  she  no  longer  wished  for  death ; 
But  as  a  poet,  who  sweet  verses  saith 
Within  his  soul,  and  joys  in  music  there, 
Nor  seeks  another  heaven,  nor  can  bear 
Disturbing  pleasures,  so  was  she  content, 
Breathing  the  life  of  grateful  sentiment. 
She  thought  no  maid  betrothed  could  be  more  blest  ^ 
ITor  treasure  must  be  valued  by  the  test 
Of  highest  excellence  and  rarity, 
And  her  dear  joy  was  best  as  best  could  be ; 
There  seemed  no  other  crown  to  her  delight 
Kow  the  high  loved  one  saw  her  love  aright. 
Thus  her  soul  thriving  on  that  exquisite  mood. 
Spread  like  the  May-time  all  its  beauteous  good 
O'er  the  soft  bloom  of  neck,  and  arms,  and  cheek, 
And  strengthened  the  sweet  body,  once  so  weak. 
Until  she  rose  and  walked,  and,  like  a  bird 
With  sweetly  rippling  throat,  she  made  her  spring  joys 
heard. 

The  king,  when  he  the  happy  change  had  seen, 

Trusted  the  ear  of  Constance,  his  fair  queen, 

With  Lisa's  innocent  secret,  and  conferred 

How  they  should  jointly,  by  their  deed  and  word. 

Honor  this  maiden's  love,  which  like  the  prayer 

Of  loyal  hermits,  never  thought  to  share 

In  what  it  gave.    The  queen  had  that  chief  grace 

Of  womanhood,  a  heart  that  can  embrace 

All  goodness  in  another  woman's  form ; 

And  that  same  day,  ere  the  sun  lay  too  warm 

On  southern  terraces,  a  messenger 

Informed  Bernardo  that  the  royal  pair 

Would  straightway  visit  him  and  celebrate 


HOW  LISA  LOYED  THE  KESTG. 


877 


Their  gladness  at  his  daughter's  happier  state, 

Which  they  were  fain  to  see.    Soon  came  the  king 

On  horseback,  with  his  barons,  heralding 

The  advent  of  the  queen  in  courtly  state  ; 

And  all,  descending  at  the  garden  gate. 

Streamed  with  their  feathers,  velvet,  and  brocade, 

Through  the  pleached  alleys,  till  they,  pausing,  made 

A  lake  of  splendor  'mid  the  aloes  gray  — 

When,  meekly  facing  all  their  proud  array. 

The  white-robed  Lisa  with  her  parents  stood. 

As  some  white  dove  before  the  gorgeous  brood 

Of  dapple-breasted  birds  born  by  the  Colchian  flood. 

The  king  and  queen,  by  gracious  looks  and  speech, 

Encourage  her,  and  thus  their  courtiers  teach 

How  this  fair  morning  they  may  courtliest  be 

By  making  Lisa  pass  it  happily. 

And  soon  the  ladies  and  the  barons  all 

Draw  her  by  turns,  as  at  a  festival 

Made  for  her  sake,  to  easy,  gay  discourse. 

And  compliment  with  looks  and  smiles  enforce ; 

A  joyous  hum  is  heard  the  gardens  round ; 

Soon  there  is  Spanish  dancing  and  the  sound 

Of  minstrel's  song,  and  autumn  fruits  are  pluckt ; 

Till  mindfully  the  king  and  queen  conduct 

Lisa  apart  to  where  a  trellised  shade 

Made  pleasant  resting.    Then  King  Pedro  said  — 

"  Excellent  maiden,  that  rich  gift  of  love 

Your  heart  hath  made  us,  hath  a  worth  above 

All  royal  treasures,  nor  is  fitly  met 

Save  when  the  grateful  memory  of  deep  debt 

Lies  still  behind  the  outward  honors  done  : 

And  as  a  sign  that  no  oblivion 

Shall  overflood  that  faithful  memory. 

We  while  we  live  your  cavalier  will  be, 


878  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Nor  will  we  ever  arm  ourselves  for  fight, 

Wlietlier  for  struggle  dire  or  brief  delight 

Of  warlike  feigning,  but  we  first  will  take 

The  colors  you  ordain,  and  for  your  sake 

Charge  the  more  bravely  where  your  emblem  is ; 

ISTor  will  we  ever  claim  an  added  bliss 

To  our  sweet  thoughts  of  you  save  one  sole  kiss. 

But  there  still  rests  the  outward  honor  meet 

To  mark  your  worthiness,  and  we  entreat 

That  you  will  turn  your  ear  to  proffered  vows 

Of  one  who  loves  you,  and  would  be  your  spouse. 

We  must  not  wrong  yourself  and  Sicily 

By  letting  all  your  blooming  years  pass  by 

Unmated :  you  will  give  the  world  its  due 

From  beauteous  maiden  and  become  a  matron  true." 

Then  Lisa,  wrapt  in  virgin  wonderment 
At  her  ambitious  love's  complete  content, 
Which  left  no  further  good  for  her  to  seek 
Than  love's  obedience,  said  with  accent  meek  — 

Monsignor,  I  know  well  that  were  it  known 
To  all  the  world  how  high  my  love  had  flown. 
There  would  be  few  who  would  not  deem  me  mad, 
Or  say  my  mind  the  falsest  image  had 
Of  my  condition  and  your  lofty  place. 
But  heaven  has  seen  that  for  no  moment's  space 
Have  I  forgotten  you  to  be  the  king, 
Or  me  myself  to  be  a  lowly  thing  — 
A  little  lark,  enamored  of  the  sky. 
That  soared  to  sing,  to  break  its  breast,  and  die. 
But,  as  you  better  know  than  I,  the  heart 
In  choosing  chooseth  not  its  own  desert, 
But  that  great  merit  which  attracteth  it ; 
'T  is  law,  I  struggled,  but  I  must  submit, 
And  having  seen  a  worth  all  worth  above, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  379 


I  loved  you,  love  you,  and  shall  always  love. 

But  tliat  doth  mean,  my  will  is  ever  yours, 

!N"ot  only  when  your  will  my  good  insures. 

But  if  it  wrought  me  what  the  world  calls  harm  — 

Fire,  wounds,  would  wear  from  your  dear  will  a  charm. 

That  you  will  be  my  knight  is  full  content. 

And  for  that  kiss  —  I  pray,  first  for  the  queen^s  consent." 

Her  answer,  given  with  such  firm  gentleness. 

Pleased  the  queen  well,  and  made  her  hold  no  less 

Of  Lisa's  merit  than  the  king  had  held. 

And  so,  all  cloudy  threats  of  grief  dispelled, 

There  was  betrothal  made  that  very  morn 

'Twixt  Perdicone,  youthful,  brave,  well-born, 

And  Lisa,  whom  he  loved ;  she  loving  well 

The  lot  that  from  obedience  befell. 

The  queen  a  rare  betrothal  ring  on  each 

Bestowed,  and  other  gems,  with  gracious  speech. 

And  that  no  joy  might  lack,  the  king,  who  knew 

The  youth  was  poor,  gave  him  rich  Ceffalii 

And  Cataletta,  large  and  fruitful  lands  — 

Adding  much  promise  when  he  joined  their  hands. 

At  last  he  said  to  Lisa,  with  an  air 

Gallant  yet  noble :  "  Now  we  claim  our  share 

From  your  sweet  love,  a  share  which  is  not  small : 

For  in  the  sacrament  one  crumb  is  all.'' 

Then  taking  her  small  face  his  hands  between, 

He  kissed  her  on  the  brow  with  kiss  serene. 

Fit  seal  to  that  pure  vision  her  young  soul  had  seen. 

Sicilians  witnessed  that  King  Pedro  kept 

His  royal  promise  :  Perdicone  stept 

To  many  honors  honorably  won. 

Living  with  Lisa  in  true  union. 

Throughout  his  life  the  king  still  took  delight 


380  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


To  call  himself  fair  Lisa's  faithful  knight; 
And  never  wore  in  field  or  tournament 
A  scarf  or  emblem  save  by  Lisa  sent. 

Such  deeds  made  subjects  loyal  in  that  land : 

They  joyed  that  one  so  worthy  to  command, 

So  chivalrous  and  gentle,  had  become 

The  king  of  Sicily,  and  filled  the  room 

Of  Frenchmen,  who  abused  the  Church's  trust, 

Till,  in  a  righteous  vengeance  on  their  lust, 

Messina  rose,  with  God,  and  with  the  dagger's  thrust. 

L'exvoi. 

Reader,  this  story  pleased  me  long  ago 

In  the  bright  pages  of  Boccaccio, 

And  where  the  author  of  a  good  we  know, 

Let  us  not  fail  to  pay  the  grateful  thanks  we  owe. 

1869. 


A  MINOE  PEOPHET. 


I HAVE  a  friend^  a  vegetarian  seer, 
By  name  Elias  Baptist  Butterworth, 
A  harmless,  bland,  disinterested  man, 
Whose  ancestors  in  Cromwell's  day  believed 
The  Second  Advent  certain  in  five  years. 
But  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  instead^ 
Eevised  their  date  and  sought  another  world : 
I  mean  —  not  heaven  but  —  America. 
A  fervid  stock,  whose  generous  hope  embraced 
The  fortunes  of  mankind,  not  stopping  short 
At  rise  of  leather,  or  the  fall  of  gold, 
Nor  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  time 
As  housewives  listen  to  a  cackling  hen, 
With  wonder  whether  she  has  laid  her  egg 
On  their  own  nest-egg.    Still  they  did  insist 
Somewhat  too  wearisomely  on  the  joys 
Of  their  Millennium,  when  coats  and  hats 
Would  all  be  of  one  pattern,  books  and  songs 
All  fit  for  Sundays,  and  the  casual  talk 
As  good  as  sermons  preached  extempore. 

And  in  Elias  the  ancestral  zeal 

Breathes  strong  as  ever,  only  modified 

By  Transatlantic  air  and  modern  thought. 

You  could  not  pass  him  in  the  street  and  fail 

To  note  his  shoulders'  long  declivity. 

Beard  to  the  waist,  swan-neck,  and  large  pale  eyes ; 

Or,  when  he  lifts  his  hat,  to  mark  his  hair 


382  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Bruslied  back  to  show  his  great  capacity  — 
A  full  grain's  length  at  the  angle  of  the  brow 
Proving  him  witty,  while  the  shallower  men 
Only  seem  witty  in  their  repartees. 
Not  that  he 's  vain,  but  that  his  doctrine  needs 
The  testimony  of  his  frontal  lobe. 

On  all  points  he  adopts  the  latest  views ; 
Takes  for  the  key  of  universal  Mind 
The  "  levitation ''  of  stout  gentlemen ; 
Believes  the  Eappings  are  not  spirits'  work, 
But  the  Thought-atmosphere's,  a  stream  of  brains 
In  correlated  force  of  raps,  as  proved 
By  motion,  heat,  and  science  generally  ; 
The  spectrum,  for  example,  which  has  shown 
The  selfsame  metals  in  the  sun  as  here  ; 
So  the  Thought-atmosphere  is  everywhere  : 
High  truths  that  glimmered  under  other  names 
To  ancient  sages,  whence  good  scholarship 
Applied  to  Eleusinian  mysteries  — 
The  Vedas  —  Tripitaka  —  Vendidad  — 
Might  furnish  weaker  proof  for  weaker  minds 
That  Thought  was  rapping  in  the  hoary  past, 
And  might  have  edified  the  Greeks  by  raps 
At  the  greater  Dionysia,  if  their  ears 
Had  not  been  filled  with  Sophoclean  verse. 
And  when  all  Earth  is  vegetarian  — 
When,  lacking  butchers,  quadrupeds  die  out, 
And  less  Thought-atmosphere  is  reabsorbed 
By  nerves  of  insects  parasitical. 
Those  higher  truths,  seized  now  by  higher  minds 
But  not  expressed  (the  insects  hindering), 
Will  either  flash  out  into  eloquence, 
Or  better  still,  be  comprehensible 
By  rappings  simply,  without  need  of  roots. 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


888 


is  on  this  theme  —  the  vegetarian  world  — 
That  good  Elias  willingly  expands  : 
He  loves  to  tell  in  mildly  nasal  tones 
And  vowels  stretched  to  suit  the  widest  views, 
The  future  fortunes  of  our  infant  Earth  — 
When  it  will  be  too  full  of  human  kind 
To  have  the  room  for  wilder  animals. 
Saith  he,  Sahara  will  be  populous 
With  families  of  gentlemen  retired 
From  commerce  in  more  Central  Africa, 
Who  order  coolness  as  we  order  coal, 
And  have  a  lobe  anterior  strong  enough 
To  think  away  the  sand-storms.    Science  thus 
Will  leave  no  spot  on  this  terraqueous  globe 
Unfit  to  be  inhabited  by  man, 
The  chief  of  animals  :  all  meaner  brutes 
Will  have  been  smoked  and  elbowed  out  of  life. 
No  lions  then  shall  lap  Caffrarian  pools, 
Or  shake  the  Atlas  with  their  midnight  roar : 
Even  the  slow,  slime-loving  crocodile. 
The  last  of  animals  to  take  a  hint, 
Will  then  retire  forever  from  a  scene 
Where  public  feeling  strongly  sets  against  him. 
Fishes  may  lead  carnivorous  lives  obscure. 
But  must  not  dream  of  culinary  rank 
Or  being  dished  in  good  society. 
Imagination  in  that  distant  age. 
Aiming  at  fiction  called  historical. 
Will  vainly  try  to  reconstruct  the  times 
When  it  was  men's  preposterous  delight 
To  sit  astride  live  horses,  which  consumed 
Materials  for  incalculable  cakes  ; 

When  there  were  milkmaids  who  drew  milk  from  cows 
With  udders  kept  abnormal  for  that  end 
Since  the  rude  mythopoeic  period 


384  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  Aryan  dairymen,  who  did  not  blush. 

To  call  their  milkmaid  and  their  daughter  one  — 

Helplessly  gazing  at  the  Milky  Way, 

Nor  dreaming  of  the  astral  cocoa-nuts 

Quite  at  the  service  of  posterity. 

'T  is  to  be  feared,  though,  that  the  duller  boys, 

Much  given  to  anachronisms  and  nuts 

(Elias  has  confessed  boys  will  be  boys), 

May  write  a  jockey  for  a  centaur,  think 

Europa's  suitor  was  an  Irish  bull, 

^sop  a  journalist  who  wrote  up  Fox, 

And  Bruin  a  chief  swindler  upon  ^Change. 

Boys  will  be  boys,  but  dogs  will  all  be  moral, 

With  longer  alimentary  canals 

Suited  to  diet  vegetarian. 

The  uglier  breeds  will  fade  from  memory, 

Or,  being  palseontological, 

Live  but  as  portraits  in  large  learned  books, 

Distasteful  to  the  feelings  of  an  age 

Nourished  on  purest  beauty.    Earth  will  hold 

No  stupid  brutes,  no  cheerful  queernesses. 

No  naive  cunning,  grave  absurdity. 

Wart-pigs  with  tender  and  parental  grunts, 

Wombats  much  flattened  as  to  their  contour. 

Perhaps  from  too  much  crushing  in  the  ark, 

But  taking  meekly  that  fatality ; 

The  serious  cranes,  unstung  by  ridicule ; 

Long-headed,  short-legged,  solemn-looking  curs, 

(Wise,  silent  critics  of  a  flippant  age) ; 

The  silly  straddling  foals,  the  weak-brained  geese 

Hissing  fallaciously  at  sound  of  wheels  — 

All  these  rude  products  will  have  disappeared 

Along  with  every  faulty  human  type. 

By  dint  of  diet  vegetarian 

All  will  be  harmony  of  hue  and  line. 


A  MINOR  PKOPHET. 


385 


Bodies  and  minds  all  perfect,  limbs  well-turned, 
And  talk  quite  free  from  aught  erroneous. 

Thus  far  Elias  in  his  seer's  mantle : 

But  at  this  climax  in  his  prophecy 

My  sinking  spirits,  fearing  to  be  swamped, 

Urge  me  to  speak.      High  prospects  these,  my  friend, 

Setting  the  weak  carnivorous  brain  astretch ; 

We  will  resume  the  thread  another  day." 

"  To-morrow,"  cries  Elias,  "  at  this  hour  ?  " 

^'  !N"o,  not  to-morrow  —  I  shall  have  a  cold  — 

At  least  I  feel  some  soreness  —  this  endemic  — 

Good-by." 

No  tears  are  sadder  than  the  smile 
With  which  T  quit  Elias.  Bitterly 
I  feel  that  every  change  upon  this  earth 
Is  bought  with  sacrifice.    My  yearnings  fail 
To  reach  that  high  apocalyptic  mount 
Which  shows  in  bird's-eye  view  a  perfect  world. 
Or  enter  warmly  into  other  joys 
Than  those  of  faulty,  struggling  human  kind. 
That  strain  upon  my  soul's  too  feeble  wing 
Ends  in  ignoble  floundering :  I  fall 
Into  short-sighted  pity  for  the  men 
Who  living  in  those  perfect  future  times 
Will  not  know  half  the  dear  imperfect  things 
That  move  my  smiles  and  tears  —  will  never  know 
The  fine  old  incongruities  that  raise 
My  friendly  laugh ;  the  innocent  conceits 
That  like  a  needless  eyeglass  or  black  patch 
Give  those  who  wear  them  harmless  happiness ; 
The  twists  and  cracks  in  our  poor  earthenware, 
That  touch  me  to  more  conscious  fellowship 
(I  am  not  myself  the  finest  Parian) 

25 


386 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  my  coevals.    So  poor  Colin  Clout, 

To  whom  raw  onion  gives  prospective  zest, 

Consoling  hours  of  dampest  wintry  work, 

Could  hardly  fancy  any  regal  joys 

Quite  unimpregnate  with  the  onion's  scent : 

Perhaps  his  highest  hopes  are  not  all  clear 

Of  waif  tings  from  that  energetic  bulb : 

'T  is  well  that  onion  is  not  heresy. 

Speaking  in  parable,  I  am  Colin  Clout. 

A  clinging  flavor  penetrates  my  life  — 

My  onion  is  imperfectness  :  I  cleave 

To  nature's  blunders,  evanescent  types 

Which  sages  banish  from  Utopia. 

"  Not  worship  beauty  ?  ^'  say  you.    Patience,  friend ! 

I  worship  in  the  temple  with  the  rest ; 

But  by  my  hearth  I  keep  a  sacred  nook 

For  gnomes  and  dwarfs,  duck-footed  waddling  elves 

Who  stitched  and  hammered  for  the  weary  man 

In  days  of  old.    And  in  that  piety 

I  clothe  ungainly  forms  inherited 

From  toiling  generations,  daily  bent 

At  desk,  or  plough,  or  loom,  or  in  the  mine, 

In  pioneering  labors  for  the  world. 

Nay,  I  am  apt  when  floundering  confused 

From  too  rash  flight,  to  grasp  at  paradox, 

And  pity  future  men  who  will  not  know 

A  keen  experience  with  pity  blent, 

The  pathos  exquisite  of  lovely  minds 

Hid  in  harsh  forms  —  not  penetrating  them 

Like  fire  divine  within  a  common  bush 

Which  glows  transfigured  by  the  heavenly  guest, 

So  that  men  put  their  shoes  off ;  but  encaged 

Like  a  sweet  child  within  some  thick-walled  cell, 

Who  leaps  and  fails  to  hold  the  window-bars. 

But  having  shown  a  little  dimpled  hand 


A  MmOR  PROPHET. 


38T 


Is  visited  thencefortli  by  tender  hearts 
Whose  eyes  keep  watch  about  the  prison  walls. 
A  foolish,  nay,  a  wicked  paradox ! 
For  purest  pity  is  the  eye  of  love 
Melting  at  sight  of  sorrow ;  and  to  grieve 
Because  it  sees  no  sorrow,  shows  a  love 
Warped  from  its  truer  nature,  turned  to  love 
Of  merest  habit,  like  the  miser's  greed. 
But  I  am  Colin  still :  my  prejudice 
Is  for  the  flavor  of  my  daily  food. 
Not  that  I  doubt  the  world  is  growing  still 
As  once  it  grew  from  Chaos  and  from  Night ; 
Or  have  a  soul  too  shrunken  for  the  hope 
Which  dawned  in  human  breasts,  a  double  morn, 
With  earliest  watchings  of  the  rising  light 
Chasing  the  darkness ;  and  through  many  an  age 
Has  raised  the  vision  of  a  future  time 
That  stands  an  Angel  with  a  face  all  mild 
Spearing  the  demon.    I  too  rest  in  faith 
That  man's  perfection  is  the  crowning  flower, 
Toward  which  the  urgent  sap  in  life's  great  tree 
Is  pressing  —  seen  in  puny  blossoms  now, 
But  in  the  world's  great  morrows  to  expand 
With  broadest  petal  and  with  deepest  glow. 

Yet,  see  the  patched  and  plodding  citizen 
Waiting  upon  the  pavement  with  the  throng 
While  some  victorious  world-hero  makes 
Triumphal  entry,  and  the  peal  of  shouts 
And  flash  of  faeces  'neath  uplifted  hats 
Eun  like  a  storm  of  joy  along  the  streets  ! 
He  says,  ^'  God  bless  him  ! "  almost  with  a  sob, 
As  the  great  hero  passes ;  he  is  glad 
The  world  holds  mighty  men  and  mighty  deeds ; 
The  music  stirs  his  pulses  like  strong  wine, 


388  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  moving  splendor  touches  him  with  awe  — 

^T  is  glory  shed  around  the  common  weal, 

And  he  will  pay  his  tribute  willingly, 

Though  with  the  pennies  earned  by  sordid  toil. 

Perhaps  the  hero's  deeds  have  helped  to  bring 

A  time  when  every  honest  citizen 

Shall  wear  a  coat  unpatched.    And  yet  he  feels 

More  easy  fellowship  with  neighbors  there 

Who  look  on  too ;  and  he  will  soon  relapse 

From  noticing  the  banners  and  the  steeds 

To  think  with  pleasure  there  is  just  one  bun 

Left  in  his  pocket,  that  may  serve  to  tempt 

The  wide-eyed  lad,  whose  weight  is  all  too  much 

For  that  young  mother's  arms  :  and  then  he  falls 

To  dreamy  picturing  of  sunny  days 

When  he  himself  was  a  small  big-cheeked  lad 

In  some  far  village  where  no  heroes  came. 

And  stood  a  listener  'twixt  his  father's  legs 

In  the  warm  firelight,  while  the  old  folk  talked 

And  shook  their  heads  and  looked  upon  the  floor ; 

And  he  was  puzzled,  thinking  life  was  fine  — 

The  bread  and  cheese  so  nice  all  through  the  year 

And  Christmas  sure  to  come.    Oh  that  good  time  ! 

He,  could  he  choose,  would  have  those  days  again 

And  see  the  dear  old-fashioned  things  once  more. 

But  soon  the  wheels  and  drums  have  all  passed  by 

And  tramping  feet  are  heard  like  sudden  rain : 

The  quiet  startles  our  good  citizen ; 

He  feels  the  child  upon  his  arms,  and  knows 

He  is  with  the  people  making  holiday 

Because  of  hopes  for  better  days  to  come. 

But  Hope  to  him  was  like  the  brilliant  west 

Telling  of  sunrise  in  a  world  unknown, 

And  from  that  dazzling  curtain  of  bright  hues 

He  turned  to  the  familiar  face  of  fields 


A  MINOR  PROPHET, 


389 


Lying  all  clear  in  the  calm  morning  land. 

Maybe 't  is  wiser  not  to  fix  a  lens 

Too  scrutinizing  on  the  glorious  times 

When  Barbarossa  shall  arise  and  shake 

His  mountain,  good  King  Arthur  come  again, 

And  all  the  heroes  of  such  giant  soul 

That,  living  once  to  cheer  mankind  with  hope, 

They  had  to  sleep  until  the  time  was  ripe 

For  greater  deeds  to  match  their  greater  thought. 

Yet  no  !  the  earth  yields  nothing  more  Divine 

Than  high  prophetic  vision  —  than  the  Seer 

Who  fasting  from  man's  meaner  joy  beholds 

The  paths  of  beauteous  order,  and  constructs 

A  fairer  type,  to  shame  our  low  content. 

But  prophecy  is  like  potential  sound 

Which  turned  to  music  seems  a  voice  sublime 

From  out  the  soul  of  light ;  but  turns  to  noise 

In  scrannel  pipes,  and  makes  all  ears  averse. 

The  faith  that  life  on  earth  is  being  shaped 

To  glorious  ends,  that  order,  justice,  love, 

Mean  man's  completeness,  mean  effect  as  sure 

As  roundness  in  the  dew-drop  —  that  great  faith 

Is  but  the  rushing  and  expanding  stream 

Of  thought,  of  feeling,  fed  by  all  the  past. 

Our  finest  hope  is  finest  memory. 

As  they  who  love  in  age  think  youth  is  blest 

Because  it  has  a  life  to  fill  with  love. 

Full  souls  are  double  mirrors,  making  still 

An  endless  vista  of  fair  things  before 

Repeating  things  behind :  so  faith  is  strong 

Only  when  we  are  strong,  shrinks  when  we  shrink. 

It  comes  when  music  stirs  us,  and  the  chords 

Moving  on  some  grand  climax  shake  our  souls 

With  influx  new  that  makes  new  energies. 


390 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


It  comes  in  swellings  of  the  heart  and  tears 
That  rise  at  noble  and  at  gentle  deeds  — 
At  labors  of  the  master-artist's  hand 
Which,  trembling,  touches  to  a  finer  end, 
Trembling  before  an  image  seen  within. 
It  comes  in  moments  of  heroic  love, 
XJn jealous  joy  in  joy  not  made  for  us  — 
In  conscious  triumph  of  the  good  within 
Making  us  worship  goodness  that  rebukes. 
Even  our  failures  are  a  prophecy, 
Even  our  yearnings  and  our  bitter  tears 
After  that  fair  and  true  we  cannot  grasp ; 
As  patriots  who  seem  to  die  in  vain 
Make  liberty  more  sacred  by  their  pangs. 

Presentiment  of  better  things  on  earth 

Sweeps  in  with  every  force  that  stirs  our  souls 

To  admiration,  self-renouncing  love, 

Or  thoughts,  like  light,  that  bind  the  world  in  one,  — 

Sweeps  like  the  sense  of  vastness,  when  at  night 

We  hear  the  roll  and  dash  of  waves  that  break 

Nearer  and  nearer  with  the  rushing  tide, 

Which  rises  to  the  level  of  the  cliff 

Because  the  wide  Atlantic  rolls  behind, 

Throbbing  respondent  to  the  far-off  orbs. 

1865. 


BEOTHEE  AND  SISTER 


I. 

I CANNOT  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 
Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 
And  I  the  girl  that  puppy-like  now  ran, 
Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  wise,  and  when  he  talked  to  me 
Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 
I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

If  he  said  "  Hush  ! ''  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath ; 
Wherever  he  said  "  Come  ! "  I  stepped  in  faith. 

II. 

Long  years  have  left  their  writing  on  my  brow. 
But  yet  the  freshness  and  the  dew-fed  beam 
Of  those  young  mornings  are  about  me  now, 
When  we  two  wandered  toward  the  far-off  stream 

With  rod  and  line.    Our  basket  held  a  store 
Baked  for  us  only,  and  I  thought  with  joy 


892 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


That  I  should  have  my  share,  though  he  had  more, 
Because  he  was  the  elder  and  a  boy. 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes^ 
The  bunched  cowslip's  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories, 

And  wild-rose  branches  take  their  finest  scent 
From  those  blest  hours  of  infantine  content. 

III. 

Our  mother  bade  us  keep  the  trodden  ways, 
Stroked  down  my  tippet,  set  my  brother's  frill, 
Then  with  the  benediction  of  her  gaze 
Clung  to  us  lessening,  and  pursued  us  still 

Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 
Whose  tall  old  trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound. 
So  rich  for  us,  we  counted  them  as  realms 
With  varied  products :  here  were  earth-nuts  found, 

And  here  the  Lady-fingers  in  deep  shade ; 
Here  sloping  toward  the  Moat  the  rushes  grew. 
The  large  to  split  for  pith,  the  small  to  braid ; 
While  over  all  the  dark  rooks  cawing  flew, 

And  made  a  happy  strange  solemnity, 

A  deep-toned  chant  from  life  unknown  to  me. 

IV. 

Our  meadow-path  had  memorable  spots : 
One  where  it  bridged  a  tiny  rivulet. 
Deep  hid  by  tangled  blue  Forget-me-nots ; 
And  all  along  the  waving  grasses  met 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


393 


My  little  palm,  or  nodded  to  my  cheek, 
When  flowers  with  upturned  faces  gazing  drew 
My  wonder  downward,  seeming  all  to  speak 
With  eyes  of  souls  that  dumbly  heard  and  knew. 

Then  came  the  copse,  where  wild  things  rushed  unseen, 
And  black-scathed  grass  betrayed  the  past  abode 
Of  mystic  gypsies,  who  still  lurked  between 
Me  and  each  hidden  distance  of  the  road. 

A  gypsy  once  had  startled  me  at  play, 
Blotting  with  her  dark  smile  my  sunny  day. 

V. 

Thus  rambling  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learned  the  meanings  that  give  words  a  soul, 
The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store, 
Whose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole. 

Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good ; 
My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch, 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth  and  find 
Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  out  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind  ? 
Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above, 

'T  is  love  must  see  them,  as  the  eyes  see  light : 
Day  is  but  Number  to  the  darkened  sight. 

VI. 

Our  brown  canal  was  endless  to  my  thought ; 
And  on  its  banks  I  sat  in  dreamy  peace, 


394  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Unknowing  how  the  good  I  loved  was  wrought, 
Untroubled  by  the  fear  that  it  would  cease. 

Slowly  the  barges  floated  into  view, 
Bounding  a  grassy  hill  to  me  sublime 
With  some  Unknown  beyond  it,  whither  flew 
The  parting  cuckoo  toward  a  fresh  spring-time. 

The  wide-arched  bridge,  the  scented  elder-flowers, 
The  wondrous  watery  rings  that  died  too  soon. 
The  echoes  of  the  quarry,  the  still  hours 
"With  white  robe  sweeping  on  the  shadeless  noon, 

Were  but  my  growing  self,  are  part  of  me. 
My  present  Past,  my  root  of  piety. 

VII. 

Those  long  days  measured  by  my  little  feet 
Had  chronicles  which  yield  me  niany  a  text ; 
Where  irony  still  finds  an  image  meet 
Of  full-grown  judgments  in  this  world  perplext. 

One  day  my  brother  left  me  in  high  charge, 
To  mind  the  rod,  while  he  went  seeking  bait, 
And  bade  me,  when  I  saw  a  nearing  barge. 
Snatch  out  the  line,  lest  he  should  come  too  late. 

Proud  of  the  task,  I  watched  with  all  my  might 
For  one  whole  minute,  till  my  eyes  grew  wide. 
Till  sky  and  earth  took  on  a  strange  new  light 
And  seemed  a  dream-world  floating  on  some  tide  — 

A  fair  pavilioned  boat  for  me  alone 

Bearing  me  onward  through  the  vast  unknown. 


BROTHER  A^^-D  SISTER. 


VIII. 

But  sudden  came  the  barge's  pitch-black  prow, 
Nearer  and  angrier  came  my  brother's  cry, 
And  all  my  soul  was  quivering  fear,  when  lo  ! 
Upon  the  imperilled  line,  suspended  high, 

A  silver  perch  !    My  guilt  that  won  the  prey, 
Now  turned  to  merit,  had  a  guerdon  rich 
Of  hugs  and  praises,  and  made  merry  play, 
Until  my  triumph  reached  its  highest  pitch 

When  all  at  home  were  told  the  wondrous  feat. 
And  how  the  little  sister  had  fished  well. 
In  secret,  though  my  fortune  tasted  sweet, 
I  wondered  why  this  happiness  befell. 

The  little  lass  had  luck,''  the  gardener  said : 
And  so  I  learned,  luck  was  with  glory  wed. 

IX. 

We  had  the  selfsame  world  enlarged  for  each 
By  loving  difference  of  girl  and  boy : 
The  fruit  that  hung  on  high  beyond  my  reach 
He  plucked  for  me,  and  oft  he  must  employ 

A  measuring  glance  to  guide  my  tiny  shoe 
Where  lay  firm  stepping-stones,  or  call  to  mind 

This  thing  I  like  my  sister  may  not  do, 
For  she  is  little,  and  I  must  be  kind." 

Thus  boyish  Will  the  nobler  mastery  learned 
Where  inward  vision  over  impulse  reigns. 
Widening  its  life  with  separate  life  discerned, 
A  Like  unlike,  a  Self  that  self  restrains. 


396  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


His  years  with  others  must  the  sweeter  be 
For  those  brief  days  he  spent  in  loving  me. 

X. 

His  sorrow  was  my  sorrow,  and  his  joy 
Sent  little  leaps  and  laughs  through  all  my  frame ; 
My  doll  seemed  lifeless  and  no  girlish  toy 
Had  any  reason  when  my  brother  came. 

I  knelt  with  him  at  marbles,  marked  his  fling 
Cut  the  ringed  stem  and  make  the  apple  drop, 
Or  watched  him  winding  close  the  spiral  string 
That  looped  the  orbits  of  the  humming  top. 

Grasped  by  such  fellowship  my  vagrant  thought 
Ceased  with  dream-fruit  dream-wishes  to  fulfil ; 
My  aery-picturing  fantasy  was  taught 
Subjection  to  the  harder,  truer  skill 

That  seeks  with  deeds  to  grave  a  thought-tracked  line, 
And  by  "  What  is,''  "  What  will  be''  to  define. 

XI. 

School  parted  us ;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  evermore  be  singled. 

Yet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue : 
We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime. 
And  its  dear  accent  to  our  utterance  clung. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


397 


Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 
And  pitiless  shaped  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life's  course. 

But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 
I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 


1869. 


STRADIVAEIUS. 


TOUR  soul  was  lifted  by  the  wings  to-day 
Hearing  the  master  of  the  violin : 
You  praised  him,  praised  the  great  Sebastian  too 
Who  made  that  fine  Chaconne ;  but  did  you  think 
Of  old  Antonio  Stradivari  ?  —  him 
Who  a  good  century  and  half  ago 
Put  his  true  work  in  that  brown  instrument 
And  bj''  the  nice  adjustment  of  its  frame 
Gave  it  responsive  life,  continuous 
With  the  master's  finger-tips  and  perfected 
Like  them  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use. 
Not  Bach  alone,  helped  by  fine  precedent 
Of  genius  gone  before,  nor  Joachim 
Who  holds  the  strain  afresh  incorporate 
By  inward  hearing  and  notation  strict 
Of  nerve  and  muscle,  made  our  joy  to-day : 
Another  soul  was  living  in  the  air 
And  swaying  it  to  true  deliverance 
Of  high  invention  and  responsive  skill : 
That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work 
Patient  and  accurate  full  fourscore  years. 
Cherished  his  sight  and  touch  by  temperance, 
And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  perfectness 
Made  perfect  violins,  the  needed  paths 
Por  inspiration  and  high  mastery. 

No  simpler  man  than  he  :  he  never  cried, 
"Why  was  I  born  to  this  monotonous  task 


STRADIYARIUS. 


399 


Of  making  violins  ?  "  or  flung  them  down 

To  suit  with  hurling  act  a  well-hurled  curse 

At  labor  on  such  perishable  stuff. 

Hence  neighbors  in  Cremona  held  him  dull, 

Called  him  a  slave,  a  mill-horse,  a  machine, 

Begged  him  to  tell  his  motives  or  to  lend 

A  few  gold  pieces  to  a  loftier  mind. 

Yet  he  had  pithy  words  full  fed  by  fact ; 

For  Fact,  well-trusted,  reasons  and  persuades, 

Is  gnomic,  cutting,  or  ironical, 

Draws  tears,  or  is  a  tocsin  to  arouse  — 

Can  hold  all  figures  of  the  orator 

In  one  plain  sentence ;  has  her  pauses  too  — 

Eloquent  silence  at  the  chasm  abrupt 

Where  knowledge  ceases.    Thus  Antonio 

Made  answers  as  Fact  willed,  and  made  them  strong. 

Naldo,  a  painter  of  eclectic  school. 

Taking  his  dicers,  candlelight  and  grins 

From  Caravaggio,  and  in  holier  groups 

Combining  Flemish  flesh  with  martyrdom  — 

Knowing  all  tricks  of  style  at  thirty-one, 

And  weary  of  them,  while  Antonio 

At  sixty-nine  wrought  placidly  his  best. 

Making  the  violin  you  heard  to-day  — 

Naldo  would  tease  him  oft  to  tell  his  aims. 

"  Perhaps  thou  hast  some  pleasant  vice  to  feed  — 

The  love  of  louis  d'ors  in  heaps  of  four, 

Each  violin  a  heap  —  I  Ve  naught  to  blame ; 

My  vices  waste  such  heaps.    But  then,  why  work 

With  painful  nicety  ?    Since  fame  once  earned 

By  luck  or  merit  —  oftenest  by  luck  — 

(Else  why  do  I  put  Bonifazio's  name 

To  work  that  '  pinxit  Naldo '  would  not  sell  ?) 

Is  welcome  index  to  the  wealthy  mob 


400  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Where  they  should  pay  their  gold,  and  where  they  pay 
There  they  find  merit  —  take  your  tow  for  flax, 
And  hold  the  flax  unlabelled  with  your  name, 
Too  coarse  for  sufferance." 

Antonio  then : 
"  I  like  the  gold  —  well,  yes  —  but  not  for  meals. 
And  as  my  stomach,  so  my  eye  and  hand, 
And  inward  sense  that  works  along  with  both, 
Have  hunger  that  can  never  feed  on  coin. 
Who  draws  a  line  and  satisfies  his  soul, 
Making  it  crooked  where  it  should  be  straight  ? 
An  idiot  with  an  oyster-shell  may  draw 
His  lines  along  the  sand,  all  wavering. 
Fixing  no  point  or  pathway  to  a  point ; 
An  idiot  one  remove  may  choose  his  line, 
Straggle  and  be  content ;  but  God  be  praised, 
Antonio  Stradivari  has  an  eye 
That  winces  at  false  work  and  loves  the  true. 
With  hand  and  arm  that  play  upon  the  tool 
As  willingly  as  any  singing  bird 
Sets  him  to  sing  his  morning  roundelay, 
Because  he  likes  to  sing  and  likes  the  song. 

Then  ]N"aldo  :  "  'T  is  a  petty  kind  of  fame 
At  best,  that  comes  of  making  violins  ; 
And  saves  no  masses,  either.    Thou  wilt  go 
To  purgatory  none  the  less." 

But  he : 

(( 'X  were  purgatory  here  to  make  them  ill ; 

And  for  my  fame  —  when  any  master  holds 

'Twixt  chin  and  hand  a  violin  of  mine. 

He  will  be  glad  that  Stradivari  lived, 

Made  violins,  and  made  them  of  the  best. 

The  masters  only  know  whose  work  is  good : 

They  will  choose  mine,  and  while  God  gives  them  skill 


STEADIYAKIUS. 


401 


I  give  them  instruments  to  play  upon, 
God  choosing  me  to  help  Him." 

"  What !  were  God 
At  fault  for  violins,  thou  absent  ?  " 

"Yes; 

He  were  at  fault  for  Stradivari's  work/' 

"  Why,  many  hold  Giuseppe's  violins 
As  good  as  thine." 

"  May  be  :  they  are  different. 
His  quality  declines :  he  spoils  his  hand 
With  over-drinking.    But  were  his  the  best. 
He  could  not  work  for  two.    My  work  is  mine, 
And,  heresy  or  not,  if  my  hand  slacked 
I  should  rob  God  —  since  He  is  fullest  good  — 
Leaving  a  blank  instead  of  violins. 
I  say,  not  God  Himself  can  make  man's  best 
Without  best  men  to  help  Him.    I  am  one  best 
Here  in  Cremona,  using  sunlight  well 
To  fashion  finest  maple  till  it  serves 
More  cunningly  than  throats,  for  harmony. 
'T  is  rare  delight :  I  would  not  change  my  skill 
To  be  the  Emperor  with  bungling  hands. 
And  lose  my  work,  which  comes  as  natural 
As  self  at  waking." 

"  Thou  art  little  more 
Than  a  deft  potter's  wheel,  Antonio  ; 
Turning  out  work  by  mere  necessity 
And  lack  of  varied  function.    Higher  arts 
Subsist  on  freedom  —  eccentricity  — 
Uncounted  inspirations  —  influence 
That  comes  with  drinking,  gambling,  talk  turned  wild. 
Then  moody  misery  and  lack  of  food  — 
With  every  dithyrambic  fine  excess  : 

26 


402  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


These  make  at  last  a  storm  which  flashes  out 
In  lightning  revelations.    Steady  work 
Turns  genius  to  a  loom ;  the  soul  must  lie 
Like  grapes  beneath  the  sun  till  ripeness  comes 
And  mellow  vintage.    I  could  paint  you  now 
The  finest  Crucifixion  ;  yesternight 
Returning  home  I  saw  it  on  a  sky 
Blue-black,  thick-starred.    I  want  two  louis  d^ors 
To  buy  the  canvas  and  the  costly  blues  — 
Trust  me  a  fortnight.^' 

"  Where  are  those  last  two 
I  lent  thee  for  thy  Judith  ?  —  her  thou  saw^st 
In  saffron  gown,  with  Holofernes^  head 
And  beauty  all  complete  ? 

"  She  is  but  sketched  : 
I  lack  the  proper  model  —  and  the  mood. 
A  great  idea  is  an  eagle's  egg, 
Craves  time  for  hatching ;  while  the  eagle  sits, 
Feed  her.'' 

"  If  thou  wilt  call  thy  pictures  eggs 
I  call  the  hatching,  Work.    'T  is  God  gives  skill, 
But  not  without  men's  hands  :  He  could  not  make 
Antonio  Stradivari's  violins 
Without  Antonio.    Get  thee  to  thy  easel.'' 


1873. 


A  COLLEGE  BEEAKFAST-PAETY. 


YOUNG  Hamlet,  not  the  hesitating  Dane, 
But  one  named  after  him,  who  lately  strove 
For  honors  at  our  English  Wittenberg  — 
Blond,  metaphysical,  and  sensuous, 
Questioning  all  things  and  yet  half  convinced 
Credulity  were  better ;  held  inert 
'Twixt  fascinations  of  all  opposites. 
And  half  suspecting  that  the  mightiest  soul 
(Perhaps  his  own  ?)  was  union  of  extremes, 
Having  no  choice  but  choice  of  everything : 
As,  drinking  deep  to-day  for  love  of  wine, 
To-morrow  half  a  Brahmin,  scorning  life 
As  mere  illusion,  yearning  for  that  True 
Which  has  no  qualities  ;  another  day 
Finding  the  fount  of  grace  in  sacraments, 
And  purest  reflex  of  the  light  divine 
In  gem-bossed  pyx  and  broidered  chasuble, 
Resolved  to  wear  no  stockings  and  to  fast 
With  arms  extended,  waiting  ecstasy ; 
But  getting  cramps  instead,  and  needing  change, 
A  would-be  pagan  next : 

Young  Hamlet  sat 
A  guest  with  five  of  somewhat  riper  age 
At  breakfast  with  Horatio,  a  friend 
With  few  opinions,  but  of  faithful  heart. 
Quick  to  detect  the  fibrous  spreading  roots 
Of  character  that  feed  men's  theories. 
Yet  cloaking  weaknesses  with  charity 


404  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


And  ready  in  all  service  save  rebuke. 
With  ebb  of  breakfast  and  the  cider-cnp 
Came  high  debate  :  the  others  seated  there 
Were  Osric,  spinner  of  fine  sentences, 
A  delicate  insect  creeping  over  life 
Feeding  on  molecules  of  floral  breath, 
And  weaving  gossamer  to  trap  the  sun ; 
Laertes,  ardent,  rash,  and  radical ; 
Discursive  Eosencranz,  grave  Guildenstern, 
And  he  for  whom  the  social  meal  was  made  — 
The  polished  priest,  a  tolerant  listener. 
Disposed  to  give  a  hearing  to  the  lost. 
And  breakfast  with  them  ere  they  went  below. 

From  alpine  metaphysic  glaciers  first 

The  talk  sprang  copious ;  the  themes  were  old, 

But  so  is  human  breath,  so  infant  eyes, 

The  daily  nurslings  of  creative  light. 

Small  words  held  mighty  meanings  :  Matter,  Force, 

Self,  Not-self,  Being,  Seeming,  Space  and  Time  — 

Plebeian  toilers  on  the  dusty  road 

Of  daily  traffic,  turned  to  Genii 

And  cloudy  giants  darkening  sun  and  moon. 

Creation  was  reversed  in  human  talk : 

None  said,    Let  Darkness  be,''  but  Darkness  was ; 

And  in  it  weltered  with  Teutonic  ease, 

An  argumentative  Leviathan, 

Blowing  cascades  from  out  his  element, 

The  thunderous  Eosencranz,  till 

"  Truce,  I  beg ! 
Said  Osric,  with  nice  accent.    "  I  abhor 
That  battling  of  the  ghosts,  that  strife  of  terms 
For  utmost  lack  of  color,  form,  and  breath. 
That  tasteless  squabbling  called  Philosophy : 
As  if  a  blue-winged  butterfly  afloat 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


For  just  three  days  above  the  Italian  fields, 

Poising  in  sunshine,  fluttering  toward  its  bride, 

Should  fast  and  speculate,  considering 

What  were  if  it  were  not  ?  or  what  now  is 

Instead  of  that  which  seems  to  be  itself  ? 

Its  deepest  wisdom  surely  were  to  be 

A  sipping,  marrying,  blue-winged  butterfly  ; 

Since  utmost  speculation  on  itself 

Were  but  a  three  days'  living  of  worse  sort  •— 

A  bruising  struggle  all  within  the  bounds 

Of  butterfly  existence.'^ 

"I  protest,'' 

Burst  in  Laertes,    against  arguments 

That  start  with  calling  me  a  butterfly, 

A  bubble,  spark,  or  other  metaphor 

Which  carries  your  conclusions  as  a  phrase 

In  quibbling  law  will  carry  property. 

Put  a  thin  sucker  for  my  human  lips 

Fed  at  a  mother's  breast,  who  now  needs  food 

That  I  will  earn  for  her  ;  put  bubbles  blown 

From  frothy  thinking,  for  the  joy,  the  love, 

The  wants,  the  pity,  and  the  fellowship 

(The  ocean  deeps  I  might  say,  were  I  bent 

On  bandying  metaphors)  that  make  a  man  — 

Why,  rhetoric  brings  within  your  easy  reach 

Conclusions  worthy  of  —  a  butterfly. 

The  universe,  I  hold,  is  no  charade, 

No  acted  pun  unriddled  by  a  word, 

Nor  pain  a  decimal  diminishing 

With  hocus-pocus  of  a  dot  or  naught. 

For  those  who  know  it,  pain  is  solely  pain : 

Not  any  letters  of  the  alphabet 

Wrought  syllogistically  pattern-wise. 

Nor  any  cluster  of  fine  images. 

Nor  any  missing  of  their  figured  dance 


406  POEMS  OF  GEOEGE  ELIOT. 


By  blundering  molecules.  Analysis 
May  show  you  the  right  physic  for  the  ill. 
Teaching  the  molecules  to  find  their  dance, 
Instead  of  sipping  at  the  heart  of  flowers. 
But  spare  me  your  analogies,  that  hold 
Such  insight  as  the  figure  of  a  crow 
And  bar  of  music  put  to  signify 
A  crowbar." 

Said  the  Priest,  "  There  I  agree  — 
Would  add  that  sacramental  grace  is  grace 
Which  to  be  known  must  first  be  felt,  with  all 
The  strengthening  influxes  that  come  by  prayer. 
I  note  this  passingly  —  would  not  delay 
The  conversation's  tenor,  save  to  hint 
That  taking  stand  with  Eosencranz  one  sees 
Final  equivalence  of  all  we  name 
Our  Good  and  111  —  their  difference  meanwhile 
Being  inborn  prejudice  that  plumps  you  down 
An  Ego,  brings  a  weight  into  your  scale 
Forcing  a  standard.    That  resistless  weight 
Obstinate,  irremovable  by  thought. 
Persisting  through  disproof,  an  ache,  a  need 
That  spaceless  stays  where  sharp  analysis 
Has  shown  a  plenum  filled  without  it  —  what 
If  this,  to  use  your  phrase,  were  just  that  Being 
Not  looking  solely,  grasping  from  the  dark. 
Weighing  the  difference  you  call  Ego  ?  This 
Gives  you  persistence,  regulates  the  flux 
With  strict  relation  rooted  in  the  All. 
Who  is  he  of  your  late  philosophers 
Takes  the  true  name  of  Being  to  be  Will  ? 
I  —  nay,  the  Church  objects  naught,  is  content: 
Reason  has  reached  its  utmost  negative, 
Physic  and  metaphysic  meet  in  the  inane 
And  backward  shrink  to  intense  prejudice, 


A  COLLEGE  BEEAKFAST-PAETY.  407 


Making  their  absolute  and  homogene 

A  loaded  relative,  a  choice  to  be 

Whatever  is  —  supposed :  a  What  is  not. 

The  Church  demands  no  more,  has  standing  room 

And  basis  for  her  doctrine :  this  (no  more)  — 

That  the  strong  bias  which  we  name  the  Soul, 

Though  fed  and  clad  by  dissoluble  waves, 

Has  antecedent  quality,  and  rules 

By  veto  or  consent  the  strife  of  thought, 

Making  arbitrament  that  we  call  faith.^^ 

Here  was  brief  silence,  till  young  Hamlet  spoke. 

I  crave  direction,  Father,  how  to  know 
The  sign  of  that  imperative  whose  right 
To  sway  my  act  in  face  of  thronging  doubts 
Were  an  oracular  gem  in  price  beyond 
Urim  and  Thummim  lost  to  Israel. 
That  bias  of  the  soul,  that  conquering  die 
Loaded  with  golden  emphasis  of  Will  — 
How  find  it  where  resolve,  once  made,  becomes 
The  rash  exclusion  of  an  opposite 
Which  draws  the  stronger  as  I  turn  aloof.'^ 

^^I  think  I  hear  a  bias  in  your  words,'' 

The  Priest  said  mildly —    that  strong  natural  bent 

Which  we  call  hunger.    What  more  positive 

Than  appetite  ?  —  of  spirit  or  of  flesh, 

I  care  not  — '  sense  of  need '  were  truer  phrase. 

You  hunger  for  authoritative  right. 

And  yet  discern  no  difference  of  tones, 

No  weight  of  rod  that  marks  imperial  rule  ? 

Laertes  granting,  I  will  put  your  case 

In  analogic  form :  the  doctors  hold 

Hunger  which  gives  no  relish  —  save  caprice 

That  tasting  venison  fancies  mellow  pears  — 

A  symptom  of  disorder,  and  prescribe 


408  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Strict  discipline.    Were  I  physician  here 

I  would  prescribe  that  exercise  of  soul 

Which  lies  in  full  obedience  :  you  ask, 

Obedience  to  what  ?    The  answer  lies 

Within  the  word  itself  ;  for  how  obey 

What  has  no  rule,  asserts  no  absolute  claim  ? 

Take  inclination,  taste  — why,  that  is  you, 

No  rule  above  you.    Science,  reasoning 

On  nature's  order  —  they  exist  and  move 

Solely  by  disputation,  hold  no  pledge 

Of  final  consequence,  but  push  the  swing 

Where  Epicurus  and  the  Stoic  sit 

In  endless  see-saw.    One  authority. 

And  only  one,  says  simply  this.  Obey : 

Place  yourself  in  that  current  (test  it  so  !) 

Of  spiritual  order  where  at  least 

Lies  promise  of  a  high  communion, 

A  Head  informing  members.  Life  that  breathes 

With  gift  of  forces  over  and  above 

The  plus  of  arithmetic  interchange. 

^  The  Church  too  has  a  body,'  you  object, 

'  Can  be  dissected,  put  beneath  the  lens 

And  shown  the  merest  continuity 

Of  all  existence  else  beneath  the  sun.' 

I  grant  you ;  but  the  lens  will  not  disprove 

A  present  which  eludes  it.    Take  your  wit, 

Your  highest  passion,  widest-reaching  thought : 

Show  their  conditions  if  you  will  or  can. 

But  though  you  saw  the  final  atom-dance 

Making  each  molecule  that  stands  for  sign 

Of  love  being  present,  where  is  still  your  love  ? 

How  measure,  that,  how  certify  its  weight  ? 

And  so  I  say,  the  body  of  the  Church 

Carries  a  Presence,  promises  and  gifts 

Never  disproved  —  whose  argument  is  found 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  409 


In  lasting  failure  of  the  search,  elsewhere 
For  what  it  holds  to  satisfy  man's  need- 
But  I  grow  lengthy :  my  excuse  must  be 
Your  question,  Hamlet,  which  has  probed  right  through 
To  the  pith  of  our  belief.    And  I  have  robbed 
Myself  of  pleasure  as  a  listener. 
^T  is  noon,  I  see ;  and  my  appointment  stands 
For  half-past  twelve  with  Voltimand.  Good-by." 

Brief  parting,  brief  regret  —  sincere,  but  quenched 

In  fumes  of  best  Havana,  which  consoles 

For  lack  of  other  certitude.    Then  said, 

Mildly  sarcastic,  quiet  Guildenstern  : 

"  I  marvel  how  the  Father  gave  new  charm 

To  weak  conclusions  :  I  was  half  convinced 

The  poorest  reasoner  made  the  finest  man, 

And  held  his  logic  lovelier  for  its  limp." 

"  I  fain  would  hear,''  said  Hamlet,    how  you  find 

A  stronger  footing  than  the  Father  gave. 

How  base  your  self-resistance  save  on  faith 

In  some  invisible  Order,  higher  Right 

Than  changing  impulse.    What  does  Reason  bid  ? 

To  take  as  fullest  rationality 

What  offers  best  solution  :  so  the  Church. 

Science,  detecting  hydrogen  aflame 

Outside  our  firmament,  leaves  mystery 

Whole  and  untouched  beyond ;  nay,  in  our  blood 

And  in  the  potent  atoms  of  each  germ 

The  Secret  lives  —  envelops,  penetrates 

Whatever  sense  perceives  or  thought  divines. 

Science,  whose  soul  is  explanation,  halts 

With  hostile  front  at  mystery.    The  Church 

Takes  mystery  as  her  empire,  brings  its  wealth 

Of  possibility  to  fill  the  void 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


'Twixt  contradictions  —  warrants  so  a  faith 

Defying  sense  and  all  its  ruthless  train 

Of  arrogant  '  Therefores.'    Science  with  her  lens 

Dissolves  the  Forms  that  made  the  other  half 

Of  all  our  love,  which  thenceforth  widowed  lives 

To  gaze  with  maniac  stare  at  what  is  not. 

The  Church  explains  not,  governs  —  feeds  resolve 

By  vision  fraught  with  heart-experience 

And  human  yearning." 

"Ay/^  said  Guildenstern, 
With  friendly  nod,  ^'  the  Father,  I  can  see, 
Has  caught  you  up  in  his  air-chariot. 
His  thought  takes  rainbow-bridges,  out  of  reach 
By  solid  obstacles,  evaporates 
The  coarse  and  common  into  subtilties, 
Insists  that  what  is  real  in  the  Church 
Is  something  out  of  evidence,  and  begs 
(Just  in  parenthesis)  you  '11  never  mind 
What  stares  you  in  the  face  and  bruises  you. 
Why,  by  his  method  I  could  justify 
Each  superstition  and  each  tyranny 
That  ever  rode  upon  the  back  of  man. 
Pretending  fitness  for  his  sole  defence 
Against  life's  evil.    How  can  aught  subsist 
That  holds  no  theory  of  gain  or  good  ? 
Despots  with  terror  in  their  red  right  hand 
Must  argue  good  to  helpers  and  themselves, 
Must  let  submission  hold  a  core  of  gain 
To  make  their  slaves  choose  life.    Their  theory, 
Abstracting  inconvenience  of  racks. 
Whip-lashes,  dragonnades  and  all  things  coarse 
Inherent  in  the  fact  or  concrete  mass. 
Presents  the  pure  idea  —  utmost  good 
Secured  by  Order  only  to  be  found 
In  strict  subordination,  hierarchy 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  411 


Of  forces  where,  by  nature's  law,  the  strong 

Has  rightful  empire,  rule  of  weaker  proved 

Mere  dissolution.    What  can  you  object  ? 

The  Inquisition  —  if  you  turn  away 

From  narrow  notice  how  the  scent  of  gold 

Has  guided  sense  of  damning  heresy  — 

The  Inquisition  is  sublime,  is  love 

Hindering  the  spread  of  poison  in  men's  souls : 

The  flames  are  nothing :  only  smaller  pain 

To  hinder  greater,  or  the  pain  of  one 

To  save  the  many,  such  as  throbs  at  heart 

Of  every  system  born  into  the  world. 

So  of  the  Church  as  high  communion 

Of  Head  with  members,  fount  of  spirit  force 

Beyond  the  calculus,  and  carrying  proof 

In  her  sole  power  to  satisfy  man's  need : 

That  seems  ideal  truth  as  clear  as  lines 

That,  necessary  though  invisible,  trace 

The  balance  of  the  planets  and  the  sun  — 

Until  I  find  a  hitch  in  that  last  claim. 

^  To  satisfy  man's  need.'    Sir,  that  depends : 

We  settle  first  the  measure  of  man's  need 

Before  we  grant  capacity  to  fill. 

John,  James,  or  Thomas,  you  may  satisfy : 

But  since  you  choose  ideals  I  demand 

Your  Church  shall  satisfy  ideal  man. 

His  utmost  reason  and  his  utmost  love. 

And  say  these  rest  a-hungered  —  find  no  scheme 

Content  them  both,  but  hold  the  world  accursed, 

A  Calvary  where  Reason  mocks  at  Love, 

And  Love  forsaken  sends  out  orphan  cries 

Hopeless  of  answer ;  still  the  soul  remains 

Larger,  diviner  than  your  half-way  Church, 

Which  racks  your  reason  into  false  consent. 

And  soothes  your  Love  with  sops  of  selfishness.'^ 


412  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


"  There  I  am  with  you/'  cried  Laertes.  What 

To  me  are  any  dictates,  though  they  came 

With  thunders  from  the  Mount,  if  still  within 

I  see  a  higher  Eight,  a  higher  Good 

Compelling  love  and  worship  ?    Though  the  earth 

Held  force  electric  to  discern  and  kill 

Each  thinking  rebel  —  what  is  martyrdom 

But  death-defying  utterance  of  belief, 

Which  being  mine  remains  my  truth  supreme 

Though  solitary  as  the  throb  of  pain 

Lying  outside  the  pulses  of  the  world  ? 

Obedience  is  good :  ay,  but  to  what  ? 

And  for  what  ends  ?    For  say  that  I  rebel 

Against  your  rule  as  devilish,  or  as  rule 

Of  thunder-guiding  powers  that  deny 

Man's  highest  benefit :  rebellion  then 

Were  strict  obedience  to  another  rule 

Which  bids  me  flout  your  thunder." 

Lo  you  now ! '' 

Said  Osric,  delicately,  ^'  how  you  come, 
Laertes  mine,  with  all  your  warring  zeal 
As  Python-slayer  of  the  present  age  — 
Cleansing  all  social  swamps  by  darting  rays 
Of  dubious  doctrine,  hot  with  energy 
Of  private  judgment  and  disgust  for  doubt  — 
To  state  my  thesis,  which  you  most  abhor 
When  sung  in  Daphnis-notes  beneath  the  pines 
To  gentle  rush  of  waters.    Your  belief  — 
In  essence  what  is  it  but  simply  Taste  ? 
I  urge  with  you  exemption  from  all  claims 
That  come  from  other  than  my  proper  will, 
An  Ultimate  within  to  balance  yours, 
A  solid  meeting  you,  excluding  you. 
Till  you  show  fuller  force  by  entering 
My  spiritual  space  and  crushing  Me 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  413 


To  a  subordinate  complement  of  You : 

Such  ultimate  must  stand  alike  for  all. 

Preach,  your  crusade,  then:  all  will  join  who  like 

The  hurly-burly  of  aggressive  creeds ; 

Still  your  unpleasant  Ought,  your  itch  to  choose 

What  grates  upon  the  sense,  is  simply  Taste, 

Differs,  I  think,  from  mine  (permit  the  word, 

Discussion  forces  it)  in  being  bad." 

The  tone  was  too  polite  to  breed  offence. 

Showing  a  tolerance  of  what  was  "  bad  " 

Becoming  courtiers.    Louder  Eosencranz 

Took  up  the  ball  with  rougher  movement,  wont 

To  show  contempt  for  doting  reasoners 

Who  hugged  some  reasons  with  a  preference, 

As  warm  Laertes  did :  he  gave  five  puffs 

Intolerantly  sceptical,  then  said : 

"  Your  human  good,  which  you  would  make  supreme, 

How  do  you  know  it  ?    Has  it  shown  its  face 

In  adamantine  type,  with  features  clear, 

As  this  republic,  or  that  monarchy  ? 

As  federal  grouping,  or  municipal  ? 

Equality,  or  finely  shaded  lines 

Of  social  difference  ?  ecstatic  whirl 

And  draught  intense  of  passionate  joy  and  pain, 

Or  sober  self-control  that  starves  its  youth 

And  lives  to  wonder  what  the  world  calls  joy  ? 

Is  it  in  sympathy  that  shares  men's  pangs. 

Or  in  cool  brains  that  can  explain  them  well  ? 

Is  it  in  labor  or  in  laziness  ? 

In  training  for  the  tug  of  rivalry 

To  be  admired,  or  in  the  admiring  soul  ? 

In  risk  or  certitude  ?    In  battling  rage 

And  hardy  challenges  of  Protean  luck. 

Or  in  a  sleek  and  rural  apathy 


414  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Full  fed  with  sameness  ?   Pray  define  your  Good 

Beyond  rejection  by  majority  ; 

Next,  how  it  may  subsist  without  the  111 

Which  seems  its  only  outline.    Show  a  world 

Of  pleasure  not  resisted ;  or  a  world 

Of  pressure  equalized,  yet  various 

In  action  formative  ;  for  that  will  serve 

As  illustration  of  your  human  good  — 

Which  at  its  perfecting  (your  goal  of  hope) 

Will  not  be  straight  extinct,  or  fall  to  sleep 

In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  Unchangeable. 

What  will  you  work  for,  then,  and  call  it  good 

With  full  and  certain  vision  —  good  for  aught 

Save  partial  ends  which  happen  to  be  yours  ? 

How  will  you  get  your  stringency  to  bind 

Thought  or  desire  in  demonstrated  tracks 

Which  are  but  waves  within  a  balanced  whole  ? 

Is  ^  relative '  the  magic  word  that  turns 

Your  flux  mercurial  of  good  to  gold  ? 

Why,  that  analysis  at  which  you  rage 

As  anti-social  force  that  sweeps  you  down 

The  world  in  one  cascade  of  molecules, 

Is  brother  ^ relative^  —  and  grins  at  you 

Like  any  convict  whom  you  thought  to  send 

Outside  society,  till  this  enlarged 

And  meant  New  England  and  Australia  too. 

The  Absolute  is  your  shadow,  and  the  space 

Which  you  say  might  be  real  were  you  milled 

To  curves  pellicular,  the  thinnest  thin, 

Equation  of  no  thickness,  is  still  you.'^ 

"  Abstracting  all  that  makes  him  clubbable," 
Horatio  interposed.    But  Rosencranz, 
Deaf  as  the  angry  turkey-cock  whose  ears 
Are  plugged  by  swollen  tissues  when  he  scolds 


A  COLLEGE  BEEAKF AST-PARTY.  415 


At  men's  pretensions  :  "  Pooh,  your  ^  Eelatiye  * 

Shuts  you  in,  hopeless,  with  your  progeny 

As  in  a  Hunger-tower ;  your  social  good, 

Like  other  deities  by  turn  supreme, 

Is  transient  reflex  of  a  prejudice, 

Anthology  of  causes  and  effects 

To  suit  the  mood  of  fanatics  who  lead 

The  mood  of  tribes  or  nations.    I  admit 

If  you  could  show  a  sword,  nay,  chance  of  sword 

Hanging  conspicuous  to  their  inward  eyes 

With  edge  so  constant  threatening  as  to  sway 

All  greed  and  lust  by  terror  ;  and  a  law 

Clear-writ  and  proven  as  the  law  supreme 

Which  that  dread  sword  enforces  —  then  your  Eight, 

Duty,  or  social  Good,  were  it  once  brought 

To  common  measure  with  the  potent  law. 

Would  dip  the  scale,  would  put  unchanging  marks 

Of  wisdom  or  of  folly  on  each  deed. 

And  warrant  exhortation.    Until  then. 

Where  is  your  standard  or  criterion  ? 

^  What  always,  everywhere,  by  all  men '  —  why. 

That  were  but  Custom,  and  your  system  needs 

Ideals  never  yet  incorporate. 

The  imminent  doom  of  Custom.    Can  you  find 

Appeal  beyond  the  sentience  in  each  man  ? 

Frighten  the  blind  with  scarecrows  ?  raise  an  awe 

Of  things  unseen  where  appetite  commands 

Chambers  of  imagery  in  the  soul 

At  all  its  avenues  ?  —  You  chant  your  hymns 

To  Evolution,  on  your  altar  lay 

A  sacred  egg  called  Progress  :  have  you  proved 

A  Best  unique  where  all  is  relative. 

And  where  each  change  is  loss  as  well  as  gain  ? 

The  age  of  healthy  Saurians,  well  supplied 

With  heat  and  prey,  will  balance  well  enough 


416  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  human  age  where  maladies  are  strong 

And  pleasures  feeble ;  wealth  a  monster  gorged 

^Mid  hungry  populations ;  intellect 

Aproned  in  laboratories,  bent  on  proof 

That  this  is  that  and  both  are  good  for  naught 

Save  feeding  error  through  a  weary  life  ; 

While  Art  and  Poesy  struggle  like  poor  ghosts 

To  hinder  cock-crow  and  the  dreadful  light, 

Lurking  in  darkness  and  the  charnel-house, 

Or  like  two  stalv^art  graybeards,  imbecile 

With  limbs  still  active,  playing  at  belief, 

That  hunt  the  slipper,  foot-ball,  hide-and-seek, 

Are  sweetly  merry,  donning  pinafores 

And  lisping  emulously  in  their  speech. 

0  human  race  !    Is  this  then  all  thy  gain  ?  — 

Working  at  disproof,  playing  at  belief. 

Debate  on  causes,  distaste  of  effects, 

Power  to  transmute  all  elements,  and  lack 

Of  any  power  to  sway  the  fatal  skill 

And  make  thy  lot  aught  else  than  rigid  doom  ? 

The  Saurians  were  better.  —  Guildenstern, 

Pass  me  the  taper.    Still  the  human  curse 

Has  mitigation  in  the  best  cigars.'^ 

Then  swift  Laertes,  not  without  a  glare 

Of  leonine  wrath :  "  I  thank  thee  for  that  word : 

That  one  confession,  were  I  Socrates, 

Should  force  you  onward  till  you  ran  your  head 

At  your  own  image  —  flatly  gave  the  lie 

To  all  your  blasphemy  of  that  human  good 

Which  bred  and  nourished  you  to  sit  at  ease 

And  learnedly  deny  it.    Say  the  world 

Groans  ever  with  the  pangs  of  doubtful  births : 

Say,  life 's  a  poor  donation  at  the  best — 

Wisdom  a  yearning  after  nothingness  — 

Nature's  great  vision  and  the  thrill  supreme 


A  COLLEGE  BEEAKF AST-PARTY.  417 


Of  thought-fed  passion  but  a  weary  play  — 
I  argue  not  against  you.    Who  can  prove 
Wit  to  be  witty  when  with  deeper  ground 
Dulness  intuitive  declares  wit  dull  ? 
If  life  is  worthless  to  you  —  why^  it  is. 
You  only  know  how  little  love  you  feel 
To  give  you  fellowship,  how  little  force 
Responsive  to  the  quality  of  things. 
Then  end  your  life,  throw  off  the  unsought  yoke. 
If  not  —  if  you  remain  to  taste  cigars, 
Choose  racy  diction,  perorate  at  large 
With  tacit  scorn  of  meaner  men  who  win 
No  wreath  or  tripos  —  then  admit  at  least 
A  possible  Better  in  the  seeds  of  earth ; 
Acknowledge  debt  to  that  laborious  life 
Which,  sifting  evermore  the  mingled  seeds, 
Testing  the  Possible  with  patient  skill, 
And  daring  ill  in  presence  of  a  good 
For  futures  to  inherit,  made  your  lot 
One  you  would  choose  rather  than  end  it,  nay, 
Eather  than,  say,  some  twenty  million  lots 
Of  fellow-Britons  toiling  all  to  make 
That  nation,  that  community,  whereon 
You  feed  and  thrive  and  talk  philosophy. 
I  am  no  optimist  whose  faith  must  hang 
On  hard  pretence  that  pain  is  beautiful 
And  agony  explained  for  men  at  ease 
By  virtue's  exercise  in  pitying  it. 
But  this  I  hold :  that  he  who  takes  one  gift 
Made  for  him  by  the  hopeful  work  of  man. 
Who  tastes  sweet  bread,  walks  where  he  will  unarmed. 
His  shield  and  warrant  the  invisible  law, 
Who  owns  a  hearth  and  household  charities, 
Who  clothes  his  body  and  his  sentient  soul 
With  skill  and  thoughts  of  men,  and  yet  denies 
27 


418  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  human  good  worth  toiling  for,  is  cursed 
With  worse  negation  than  the  poet  feigned 
In  ]y[ephistopheles.    The  Devil  spins 
His  wire-drawn  argument  against  all  good 
With  sense  of  brimstone  as  his  private  lot, 
And  never  drew  a  solace  from  the  Earth.'' 

Laertes  fuming  paused,  and  Guildenstern 

Took  up  with  cooler  skill  the  fusillade : 

^^I  meet  your  deadliest  challenge,  Eosencranz: 

Where  get,  you  say,  a  binding  law,  a  rule 

Enforced  by  sanction,  an  Ideal  throned 

With  thunder  in  its  hand  ?    I  answer,  there 

Whence  every  faith  and  rule  has  drawn  its  force 

Since  human  consciousness  awaking  owned 

An  Outward,  whose  unconquerable  sway 

Eesisted  first  and  then  subdued  desire 

By  pressure  of  the  dire  Impossible 

Urging  to  possible  ends  the  active  soul 

And  shaping  so  its  terror  and  its  love. 

Why,  you  have  said  it — threats  and  promises 

Depend  on  each  man's  sentience  for  their  force : 

All  sacred  rules,  imagined  or  revealed, 

Can  have  no  form  or  potency  apart 

From  the  percipient  and  emotive  mind. 

God,  duty,  love,  submission,  fellowship, 

Must  first  be  framed  in  man,  as  music  is. 

Before  they  live  outside  him  as  a  law. 

And  still  they  grow  and  shape  themselves  anew, 

With  fuller  concentration  in  their  life 

Of  inward  and  of  outward  energies 

Blending  to  make  the  last  result  called  Man, 

Which  means,  not  this  or  that  philosopher 

Looking  through  beauty  into  blankness,  not 

The  swindler  who  has  sent  his  fruitful  lie 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  419 


By  tlie  last  telegram :  it  means  the  tide 

Of  needs  reciprocal,  toil,  trust,  and  love  — 

The  surging  multitude  of  human  claims 

Which  make  "  a  presence  not  to  be  put  by 

Above  the  horizon  of  the  general  soul. 

Is  inward  Reason  shrunk  to  subtleties, 

And  inward  wisdom  pining  passion-starved  ?  — 

The  outward  Reason  has  the  world  in  store, 

Regenerates  passion  with  the  stress  of  want, 

Regenerates  knowledge  with  discovery, 

Shows  sly  rapacious  Self  a  blunderer, 

Widens  dependence,  knits  the  social  whole 

In  sensible  relation  more  defined. 

Do  Boards  and  dirty-handed  millionnaires 

Govern  the  planetary  system  ?  —  sway 

The  pressure  of  the  Universe  ?  —  decide 

That  man  henceforth  shall  retrogress  to  ape, 

Emptied  of  every  sympathetic  thrill 

The  All  has  wrought  in  him  ?  dam  up  henceforth 

The  flood  of  human  claims  as  private  force 

To  turn  their  wheels  and  make  a  private  hell 

Por  fish-pond  to  their  mercantile  domain  ? 

What  are  they  but  a  parasitic  growth 

On  the  vast  real  and  ideal  world 

Of  man  and  nature  blent  in  one  divine  ? 

Why,  take  your  closing  dirge  —  say  evil  grows 

And  good  is  dwindling ;  science  mere  decay, 

Mere  dissolution  of  ideal  wholes 

Which  through  the  ages  past  alone  have  made 

The  earth  and  firmament  of  human  faith  5 

Say,  the  small  arc  of  Being  we  call  man 

Is  near  its  mergence,  w^hat  seems  growing  life 

Naught  but  a  hurrying  change  toward  lower  types, 

The  ready  rankness  of  degeneracy. 

Well,  they  who  mourn  for  the  world's  dying  good 


420  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


May  take  their  common  sorrows  for  a  rock, 
On  it  erect  religion  and  a  churcli, 
A  worship,  rites,  and  passionate  piety  — 
The  worship  of  the  Best  though  crucified 
And  God-forsaken  in  its  dying  pangs ; 
The  sacramental  rites  of  fellowship 
In  common  woe ;  visions  that  purify 
Through  admiration  and  despairing  love 
Which  keep  their  spiritual  life  intact 
Beneath  the  murderous  clutches  of  disproof 
And  feed  a  martyr-strength." 

"  Eeligion  high ! 
(Eosencranz  here)  "  But  with  communicants 
Few  as  the  cedars  upon  Lebanon — 
A  child  might  count  them.    What  the  world  demands 
Is  faith  coercive  of  the  multitude.'^ 

Tush,  Guildenstern,  you  granted  him  too  much," 
Burst  in  Laertes ;  "  I  will  never  grant 
One  inch  of  law  to  feeble  blasphemies 
Which  hold  no  higher  ratio  to  life  — 
Full  vigorous  human  life  that  peopled  earth 
And  wrought  and  fought  and  loved  and  bravely  died  — 
Than  the  sick  morning  glooms  of  debauchees. 
Old  nations  breed  old  children,  wizened  babes 
Whose  youth  is  languid  and  incredulous, 
Weary  of  life  without  the  will  to  die  ; 
Their  passions  visionary  appetites 
Of  bloodless  spectres  wailing  that  the  world 
For  lack  of  substance  slips  from  out  their  grasp  ; 
Their  thoughts  the  withered  husks  of  all  things  dead, 
Holding  no  force  of  germs  instinct  with  life, 
Which  never  hesitates  but  moves  and  grows. 
Yet  hear  them  boast  in  screams  their  godlike  ill. 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PAETY.  421 


Excess  of  knowing !    Fie  on  you,  Eosencranz ! 

You  lend  your  brains  and  fine-dividing  tongue 

For  bass-notes  to  this  shrivelled  crudity, 

This  immature  decrepitude  that  strains 

To  fill  our  ears  and  claim  the  prize  of  strength 

For  mere  unmanliness.    Out  on  them  all !  — 

Wits,  puling  minstrels,  and  philosophers, 

Who  living  softly  prate  of  suicide, 

And  suck  the  commonwealth  to  feed  their  ease 

While  they  vent  epigrams  and  threnodies, 

Mocking  or  wailing  all  the  eager  work 

Which  makes  that  public  store  whereon  they  feed. 

Is  wisdom  flattened  sense  and  mere  distaste  ? 

Why,  any  superstition  warm  with  love. 

Inspired  with  purpose,  wild  with  energy 

That  streams  resistless  through  its  ready  frame, 

Has  more  of  human  truth  within  its  life 

Than  souls  that  look  through  color  into  naught  — 

Whose  brain,  too  unimpassioned  for  delight, 

Has  feeble  ticklings  of  a  vanity 

Which  finds  the  universe  beneath  its  mark. 

And  scorning  the  blue  heavens  as  merely  blue 

Can  only  say,  '  What  then  ? '  —  pre-eminent 

In  wondrous  want  of  likeness  to  their  kind, 

Founding  that  worship  of  sterility 

Whose  one  supreme  is  vacillating  Will 

Which  makes  the  Light,  then  says,  '  ^T  were  better  not/ 

Here  rash  Laertes  brought  his  Handel-strain 
As  of  some  angry  Polypheme,  to  pause ; 
And  Osric,  shocked  at  ardors  out  of  taste, 
Eelieved  the  audience  with  a  tenor  voice 
And  delicate  delivery. 

"  For  me, 

I  range  myself  in  line  with  Eosencranz 


422  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Against  all  schemes,  religious  or  profane, 

That  flaunt  a  Good  as  pretext  for  a  lash 

To  flog  us  all  who  have  the  better  taste, 

Into  conformity,  requiring  me 

At  peril  of  the  thong  and  sharp  disgrace 

To  care  how  mere  Philistines  pass  their  lives ; 

Whether  the  English  pauper-total  grows 

From  one  to  two  before  the  naughts ;  how  far 

Teuton  will  outbreed  Eoman ;  if  the  class 

Of  proletaires  will  make  a  federal  band 

To  bind  all  Europe  and  America, 

Throw,  in  their  wrestling,  every  government, 

Snatch  the  world's  purse  and  keep  the  guillotine: 

Or  else  (admitting  these  are  casualties) 

Driving  my  soul  with  scientific  hail 

That  shuts  the  landscape  out  with  particles  ; 

Insisting  that  the  Palingenesis 

Means  telegraphs  and  measure  of  the  rate 

At  which  the  stars  move  —  nobody  knows  where. 

So  far,  my  Eosencranz,  we  are  at  one. 

But  not  when  you  blaspheme  the  life  of  Art, 

The  sweet  perennial  youth  of  Poesy, 

Which  asks  no  logic  but  its  sensuous  growth, 

No  right  but  loveliness ;  which  fearless  strolls 

Betwixt  the  burning  mountain  and  the  sea, 

Eeckless  of  earthquake  and  the  lava  stream, 

Filling  its  hour  with  beauty.    It  knows  naught 

Of  bitter  strife,  denial,  grim  resolve. 

Sour  resignation,  busy  emphasis 

Of  fresh  illusions  named  the  new-born  True, 

Old  Error's  latest  child  ;  but  as  a  lake 

Images  all  things,  yet  within  its  depths 

Dreams  them  all  lovelier  —  thrills  with  sound 

And  makes  a  harp  of  plenteous  liquid  chords  — 

So  Art  or  Poesy  :  we  its  votaries 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PAETY.  423 


Are  tlie  Olympians,  fortunately  born 

From  the  elemental  mixture  ;  't  is  our  lot 

To  pass  more  swiftly  than  the  Delian  God, 

But  still  the  earth  breaks  into  flowers  for  us, 

And  mortal  sorrows  when  they  reach  our  ears 

Are  dying  falls  to  melody  divine. 

Hatred,  war,  vice,  crime,  sin,  those  human  storms, 

Cyclones,  floods,  what  you  will  —  outbursts  of  force  — 

Feed  art  with  contrast,  give  the  grander  touch 

To  the  master's  pencil  and  the  poet's  song. 

Serve  as  Vesuvian  fires  or  navies  tossed 

On  yawning  waters,  which  when  viewed  afar 

Deepen  the  calm  sublime  of  those  choice  souls 

Who  keep  the  heights  of  poesy  and  turn 

A  fleckless  mirror  to  the  various  world, 

Giving  its  many-named  and  fitful  flux 

An  imaged,  harmless,  spiritual  life, 

With  pure  selection,  native  to  art's  frame, 

Of  beauty  only,  save  its  minor  scale 

Of  ill  and  jjain  to  give  the  ideal  joy 

A  keener  edge.    This  is  a  mongrel  globe ; 

All  finer  being  wrought  from  its  coarse  earth 

Is  but  accepted  privilege  :  what  else 

Your  boasted  virtue,  which  proclaims  itself 

A  good  above  the  average  consciousness  ? 

Nature  exists  by  partiality 

(Each  planet's  poise  must  carry  two  extremes 

With  verging  breadths  of  minor  wretchedness)  : 

We  are  her  favorites  and  accept  our  wings. 

For  your  accusal,  Eosencranz,  that  art 

Shares  in  the  dread  and  weakness  of  the  time, 

I  hold  it  null ;  since  art  or  poesy  pure, 

Being  blameless  by  all  standards  save  her  own, 

Takes  no  account  of  modern  or  antique 

In  morals,  science,  or  philosophy  : 


424  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


No  dull  elenclius  makes  a  yoke  for  her, 
Whose  law  and  measure  are  the  sweet  consent 
Of  sensibilities  that  move  apart 
From  rise  or  fall  of  systems,  states  or  creeds  — 
Apart  from  what  Philistines  call  man's  weal." 

"  Ay,  we  all  know  those  votaries  of  the  Muse 
Ravished  with  singing  till  they  quite  forgot 
Their  manhood,  sang,  and  gaped,  and  took  no  food, 
Then  died  of  emptiness,  and  for  reward 
Lived  on  as  grasshoppers   —  Laertes  thus  : 
But  then  he  checked  himself  as  one  who  feels 
His  muscles  dangerous,  and  Guildenstern 
Filled  up  the  pause  with  calmer  confidence. 

"  You  use  your  wings,  my  Osric,  poise  yourself 

Safely  outside  all  reach  of  argument. 

Then  dogmatize  at  will  (a  method  known 

To  ancient  women  and  philosophers. 

Nay,  to  Philistines  whom  you  most  abhor) ; 

Else,  could  an  arrow  reach  you,  I  should  ask 

Whence  came  taste,  beauty,  sensibilities 

Refined  to  preference  infallible  ? 

Doubtless,  ye  're  gods  —  these  odors  ye  inhale, 

A  sacrificial  scent.    But  how,  I  pray. 

Are  odors  made,  if  not  by  gradual  change 

Of  sense  or  substance  ?    Is  your  beautiful 

A  seedless,  rootless  flower,  or  has  it  grown 

With  human  growth,  which  means  the  rising  sun 

Of  human  struggle,  order,  knowledge  ?  —  sense 

Trained  to  a  fuller  record,  more  exact  — 

To  truer  guidance  of  each  passionate  force  ? 

Get  me  your  roseate  flesh  without  the  blood ; 

Get  fine  aromas  without  structure  wrought 

From  simpler  being  into  manifold : 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  425 


Then  and  then  only  flaunt  your  Beautiful 

As  what  can  live  apart  from  thought^  creeds,  states, 

Which  mean  life's  structure.    Osric,  I  beseech  — 

The  infallible  should  be  more  catholic  — 

Join  in  a  war-dance  with  the  cannibals, 

Hear  Chinese  music,  love  a  face  tattooed, 

Give  adoration  to  a  pointed  skull, 

And  think  the  Hindu  Siva  looks  divine : 

'T  is  art,  't  is  poesy.    Say,  you  object : 

How  came  you  by  that  lofty  dissidence, 

If  not  through  changes  in  the  social  man 

Widening  his  consciousness  from  Here  and  Now 

To  larger  wholes  beyond  the  reach  of  sense  ; 

Controlling  to  a  fuller  harmony 

The  thrill  of  passion  and  the  rule  of  fact ; 

And  paling  false  ideals  in  the  light 

Of  full-rayed  sensibilities  which  blend 

Truth  and  desire  ?    Taste,  beauty,  what  are  they 

But  the  soul's  choice  toward  perfect  bias  wrought 

By  finer  balance  of  a  fuller  growth  — 

Sense  brought  to  subtlest  metamorphosis 

Through  love,  thought,  joy  —  the  general  human  store 

Which  grows  from  all  life's  functions  ?    As  the  plant 

Holds  its  corolla,  purple,  delicate, 

Solely  as  outflush  of  that  energy 

Which  moves  transf ormingly  in  root  and  branch.'^ 

Guildenstern  paused,  and  Hamlet  quivering 

Since  Osric  spoke,  in  transit  imminent 

From  catholic  striving  into  laxity, 

Ventured  his  word.    "  Seems  to  me,  Guildenstern, 

Your  argument,  though  shattering  Osric's  point 

That  sensibilities  can  move  apart 

From  social  order,  yet  has  not  annulled 

His  thesis  that  the  life  of  poesy 


426  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


(Admitting  it  must  grow  from  out  the  whole) 

Has  separate  functions,  a  transfigured  realm 

Freed  from  the  rigors  of  the  practical, 

Where  what  is  hidden  from  the  grosser  world  — 

Stormed  down  by  roar  of  engines  and  the  shouts 

Of  eager  concourse  —  rises  beauteous 

As  voice  of  water-drops  in  sapphire  caves ; 

A  realm  where  finest  spirits  have  free  sway 

In  exquisite  selection,  uncontrolled 

By  hard  material  necessity 

Of  cause  and  consequence.    For  you  will  grant 

The  Ideal  has  discoveries  which  ask 

No  test,  no  faith,  save  that  we  joy  in  them : 

A  new-found  continent,  with  spreading  lands 

Where  pleasure  charters  all,  where  virtue,  rank, 

Use,  right,  and  truth  have  but  one  name.  Delight. 

Thus  Art's  creations,  when  etherealized 

To  least  admixture  of  the  grosser  fact 

Delight  may  stamp  as  highest." 

Possible ! " 

Said  Guildenstern,  with  touch  of  weariness, 

But  then  we  might  dispute  of  what  is  gross. 
What  high,  what  low." 

"  Nay,"  said  Laertes,  "  ask 
The  mightiest  makers  who  have  reigned,  still  reign 
Within  the  ideal  realm.    See  if  their  thought 
Be  drained  of  practice  and  the  thick  warm  blood 
Of  hearts  that  beat  in  action  various 
Through  the  wide  drama  of  the  struggling  world. 
Good-by,  Horatio." 

Each  now  said  Good-by." 
Such  breakfast,  such  beginning  of  the  day 


A  COLLEGE  BKEAKFAST-PAKTY. 


Is  more  than  half  the  whole.    The  sun  was  hot 

On  southward  branches  of  the  meadow  elms, 

The  shadows  slowly  farther  crept  and  veered 

Like  changing  memories,  and  Hamlet  strolled 

Alone  and  dubious  on  the  empurpled  path 

Between  the  waving  grasses  of  new  June 

Close  by  the  stream  where  well-compacted  boats 

Were  moored  or  moving  with  a  lazy  creak 

To  the  soft  dip  of  oars.    All  sounds  were  light 

As  tiny  silver  bells  upon  the  robes 

Of  hovering  silence.    Birds  made  twitterings 

That  seemed  but  Silence^  self  o'erfull  of  love. 

^T  was  invitation  all  to  sweet  repose  ; 

And  Hamlet,  drowsy  with  the  mingled  draughts 

Of  cider  and  conflicting  sentiments, 

Chose  a  green  couch  and  watched  with  half -closed 

The  meadow-road,  the  stream  and  dreamy  lights, 

Until  they  merged  themselves  in  sequence  strange 

With  undulating  ether,  time,  the  soul. 

The  will  supreme,  the  individual  claim, 

The  social  Ought,  the  lyrist's  liberty, 

Democritus,  Pythagoras,  in  talk 

With  Anselm,  Darwin,  Comte,  and  Schopenhauer, 

The  poets  rising  slow  from  out  their  tombs 

Summoned  as  arbiters  —  that  border-world 

Of  dozing,  ere  the  sense  is  fully  locked. 

And  then  he  dreamed  a  dream  so  luminous 
He  woke  (he  says)  convinced ;  but  what  it  taught 
Withholds  as  yet.    Perhaps  those  graver  shades 
Admonished  him  that  visions  told  in  haste 
Part  with  their  virtues  to  the  squandering  lips 
And  leave  the  soul  in  wider  emptiness. 

April,  1874. 


TWO  LOVEES. 


TWO  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring : 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there, 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 

0  budding  time ! 
0  love's  blest  prime ! 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept : 
The  bells  made  happy  carollings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 

0  pure-eyed  bride ! 
0  tender  pride ! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent : 

Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked : 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 

0  solemn  hour  ! 
0  hidden  power ! 


Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire  : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

0  patient  life ! 
0  tender  strife ! 


TWO  LOVERS. 


429 


The  two  still  sat  together  there, 

The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees ; 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 

0  voyage  fast ! 
0  vanished  past ! 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 

And  made  the  space  between  them  wide ; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "Once  more 
O  memories  ! 
0  past  that  is ! 


1866. 


SELF  AND  LIFE. 


Self. 


iHANGEFUL  comrade,  Life  of  mine 


I  will  tell  thee,  tliou  shalt  say. 

What  thou  hast  been  and  art. 
Ere  I  lose  my  hold  of  thee 
Justify  thyself  to  me. 

Life. 

I  was  thy  warmth  upon  thy  mother's  knee 

When  light  and  love  within  her  eyes  were  one ; 

We  laughed  together  by  the  laurel-tree. 

Culling  warm  daisies  ^neath  the  sloping  sun ; 

We  heard  the  chickens^  lazy  croon. 

Where  the  trellised  woodbines  grew, 
And  all  the  summer  afternoon 
Mystic  gladness  o'er  thee  threw. 
Was  it  person  ?    Was  it  thing  ? 
Was  it  touch  or  whispering  ? 
It  was  bliss  and  it  was  I : 
Bliss  was  what  thou  knew'st  me  by. 


Soon  I  knew  thee  more  by  Fear 
And  sense  of  what  was  not, 

Haunting  all  I  held  most  dear ; 
I  had  a  double  lot : 

Ardor,  cheated  with  alloy, 

Wept  the  more  for  dreams  of  joy. 


Before  we  two  must  part, 


Self. 


SELF  A^^D  LIFE. 


431 


Life, 

Kemember  liow  thy  ardor's  magic  sense 

Made  poor  things  rich  to  thee  and  small  things  great ; 
How  hearth  and  garden,  field  and  bushy  fence, 

Were  thy  own  eager  love  incorporate ; 

And  how  the  solemn,  splendid  Past 

O'er  thy  early  widened  earth 
Made  grandeur,  as  on  sunset  cast 
Dark  elms  near  take  mighty  girth. 
Hands  and  feet  were  tiny  still 
When  we  knew  the  historic  thrill, 
Breathed  deep  breath  in  heroes  dead, 
Tasted  the  immortals'  bread. 


Self. 

Seeing  what  I  might  have  been 

Reproved  the  thing  I  was, 
Smoke  on  heaven's  clearest  sheen, 

The  speck  within  the  rose. 
By  revered  ones'  frailties  stung 
Reverence  was  with  anguish  wrung. 

Life. 

But  all  thy  anguish  and  thy  discontent 
Was  growth  of  mine,  the  elemental  strife 

Toward  feeling  manifold  with  vision  blent 
To  wider  thought :  I  was  no  vulgar  life 

That,  like  the  water-mirrored  ape, 
Not  discerns  the  thing  it  sees, 

Nor  knows  its  own  in  others'  shape, 
Railing,  scorning,  at  its  ease. 


432 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Half  man's  truth  must  hidden  lie 
If  unlit  by  Sorrow's  eye. 
I  by  Sorrow  wrought  in  thee 
Willing  pain  of  ministry. 

Self. 

Slowly  was  the  lesson  taught 

Through  passion,  error,  care  ; 
Insight  was  the  loathing  fraught 

And  effort  with  despair. 
Written  on  the  wall  I  saw 
"  Bow  !  "  I  knew,  not  loved,  the  law. 

Life. 

But  then  I  brought  a  love  that  wrote  within 
The  law  of  gratitude,  and  made  thy  heart 

Beat  to  the  heavenly  tune  of  seraphim 
Whose  only  joy  in  having  is,  to  impart : 

Till  thou,  poor  Self  —  despite  thy  ire, 

Wrestling  'gainst  my  mingled  share, 
Thy  faults,  hard  falls,  and  vain  desire 
Still  to  be  what  others  were  — 
Filled,  o'erflowed  with  tenderness 
Seeming  more  as  thou  wert  less. 
Knew  me  through  that  anguish  past 
As  a  fellowship  more  vast. 

Self. 

Yea,  I  embrace  thee,  changeful  Life  ! 

Far-sent,  unchosen  mate ! 
Self  and  thou,  no  more  at  strife, 

Shall  wed  in  hallowed  state. 
Willing  spousals  now  shall  prove 
Life  is  justified  by  love. 


« SWEET  EVENINGS  COME  AND  GO,  LOVE; 


"  La  noche  buena  se  viene, 

La  noche  buena  se  va, 
Y  nosotros  nos  iremos 

Y  no  volveremos  mas." 

—  Old  Villancico. 

SWEET  evenings  come  and  go,  love, 
They  came  and  went  of  yore : 
This  evening  of  our  life,  love, 
Shall  go  and  come  no  more. 

When  we  have  passed  away,  love. 
All  things  will  keep  their  name ; 
But  yet  no  life  on  earth,  love, 
With  ours  will  be  same. 


The  daisies  will  be  there,  love. 
The  stars  in  heaven  will  shine : 

I  shall  not  feel  thy  wish,  love, 
Nor  thou  my  hand  in  thine. 

A  better  time  will  come,  love, 
And  better  souls  be  born : 

I  would  not  be  the  best,  love, 
To  leave  thee  now  forlorn. 


28 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


MOSES,  who  spake  with  God  as  with  his  friend, 
And  ruled  his  people  with  the  twofold  power 
Of  wisdom  that  can  dare  and  still  be  meek, 
Was  writing  his  last  word,  the  sacred  name 
Unutterable  of  that  Eternal  Will 
Which  was  and  is  and  evermore  shall  be. 
Yet  was  his  task  not  finished,  for  the  flock 
Needed  its  shepherd  and  the  life-taught  sage 
Leaves  no  successor ;  but  to  chosen  men, 
The  rescuers  and  guides  of  Israel, 
A  death  was  given  called  the  Death  of  Grace, 
Which  freed  them  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh 
But  left  them  rulers  of  the  multitude 
And  loved  companions  of  the  lonely.  This 
Was  God's  last  gift  to  Moses,  this  the  hour 
When  soul  must  part  from  self  and  be  but  soul. 

God  spake  to  Gabriel,  the  messenger 

Of  mildest  death  that  draws  the  parting  life 

Gently,  as  when  a  little  rosy  child 

Lifts  up  its  lips  from  off  tne  bowl  of  milk 

And  so  draws  forth  a  curl  that  dipped  its  gold 

In  the  soft  white  —  thus  Gabriel  draws  the  soul. 

"  Go  bring  the  soul  of  Moses  unto  me  ! " 

And  the  awe-stricken  angel  answered,  "  Lord, 

How  shall  I  dare  to  take  his  life  who  lives 

Sole  of  his  kind,  not  to  be  likened  once 

In  all  the  generations  of  the  earth  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


435 


Then  God  called  Michael,  him  of  pensive  brow, 
Snow-vest  and  flaming  sword,  who  knows  and  acts : 
"  Go  bring  the  spirit  of  Moses  unto  me  ! 
But  Michael  with  such  grief  as  angels  feel, 
Loving  the  mortals  whom  they  succor,  pled : 

Almighty,  spare  me  ;  it  was  I  who  taught 
Thy  servant  Moses ;  he  is  part  of  me 
As  I  of  thy  deep  secrets,  knowing  them." 

Then  God  called  Zamael,  the  terrible, 

The  angel  of  fierce  death,  of  agony 

That  comes  in  battle  and  in  pestilence 

Eemorseless,  suaden  or  with  lingering  throes. 

And  Zamael,  his  raiment  and  broad  wings 

Blood-tinctured,  the  dark  lustre  of  his  eyes 

Shrouding  the  red,  fell  like  the  gathering  night 

Before  the  prophet.    But  that  radiance 

Won  from  the  heavenly  presence  in  the  mount 

Gleamed  on  the  prophet's  brow  and  dazzling  pierced 

Its  conscious  opposite  :  the  angel  turned 

His  murky  gaze  aloof  and  inly  said : 

"  An  angel  this,  deathless  to  angel's  stroke.'^ 

But  Moses  felt  the  subtly  nearing  dark : 

Who  art  thou  ?  and  what  wilt  thou  ?  "  Zamael  then : 
"  1  am  God's  reaper ;  through  the  fields  of  life 
I  gather  ripened  and  unripened  souls 
Both  willing  and  unwilling.    And  I  come 
^ow  to  reap  thee."    But  Moses  cried, 
Firm  as  a  seer  who  waits  the  trusted  sign  : 
"Eeap  thou  the  fruitless  plant  and  common  herb  — 
Not  him  who  from  the  womb  was  sanctified 
To  teach  the  law  of  purity  and  love." 
And  Zamael  baffled  from  his  errand  fled. 


436 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  Moses,  pausing,  in  the  air  serene 
Heard  now  that  mystic  whisper,  far  yet  near, 
The  all-penetrating  Voice,  that  said  to  him, 
"  Moses,  the  hour  is  come  and  thou  must  die.'^ 
"  Lord,  I  obey ;  but  thou  rememberest 
How  thou.  Ineffable,  didst  take  me  once 
Within  thy  orb  of  light  untouched  by  death/' 
Then  the  voice  answered,  "  Be  no  more  afraid : 
With  me  shall  be  thy  death  and  burial." 
So  Moses  waited,  ready  now  to  die. 

And  the  Lord  came,  invisible  as  a  thought, 

Three  angels  gleaming  on  his  secret  track. 

Prince  Michael,  Zagael,  Gabriel,  charged  to  guard 

The  soul-forsaken  body  as  it  fell 

And  bear  it  to  the  hidden  sepulchre 

Denied  forever  to  the  search  of  man. 

And  the  Voice  said  to  Moses  :    Close  thine  eyes.'^ 

He  closed  them.    "Lay  thine  hand  upon  thine  heart. 

And  draw  thy  feet  together."    He  obeyed. 

And  the  Lord  said,  "  0  spirit !  child  of  mine  ! 

A  hundred  years  and  twenty  thou  hast  dwelt 

Within  this  tabernacle  wrought  of  clay. 

This  is  the  end :  come  forth  and  flee  to  heaven." 

But  the  grieved  soul  with  plaintive  pleading  cried, 
"  I  love  this  body  with  a  clinging  love  : 
The  courage  fails  me,  Lord,  to  part  from  it." 

"  0  child,  come  forth  !  for  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me 
About  the  immortal  throne  where  seraphs  joy 
In  growing  vision  and  in  growing  love." 

Yet  hesitating,  fluttering,  like  the  bird 
With  young  wing  weak  and  dubious,  the  soul 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


43T 


Stayed.    But  behold  !  upon  the  death-dewed  lips 
A  kiss  descended,  pure,  unspeakable  — 
The  bodiless  Love  without  embracing  Love 
That  lingered  in  the  body,  drew  it  forth 
With  heavenly  strength  and  carried  it  to  heaven. 

But  now  beneath  the  sky  the  watchers  all, 

Angels  that  keep  the  homes  of  Israel 

Or  on  high  purpose  wander  o'er  the  world 

Leading  the  Gentiles,  felt  a  dark  eclipse : 

The  greatest  ruler  among  men  was  gone. 

And  from  the  westward  sea  was  heard  a  wail, 

A  dirge  as  from  the  isles  of  Javanim, 

Crying,  "  Who  now  is  left  upon  the  earth 

Like  him  to  teach  the  right  and  smite  the  wrong  ?  " 

And  from  the  East,  far  o'er  the  Syrian  waste. 

Came  slowlier,  sadlier,  the  answering  dirge  : 

"  No  prophet  like  him  lives  or  shall  arise 

In  Israel  or  the  world  forevermore." 

But  Israel  waited,  looking  toward  the  mount. 
Till  with  the  deepening  eve  the  elders  came 
Saying,  "  His  burial  is  hid  with  God. 
We  stood  far  off  and  saw  the  angels  lift 
His  corpse  aloft  until  they  seemed  a  star 
That  burnt  itself  away  within  the  sky." 

The  people  answered  with  mute  orphaned  gaze 
Looking  for  what  had  vanished  evermore. 
Then  through  the  gloom  without  them  and  within 
The  spirit's  shaping  light,  mysterious  speech. 
Invisible  Will  wrought  clear  in  sculptured  sound. 
The  thought-begotten  daughter  of  the  voice, 
Thrilled  on  their  listening  sense  :  "  He  has  no  tomb. 
He  dwells  not  with  you  dead,  but  lives  as  Law." 


AEION. 


(Herod,  i.  24.) 

AKIOIST,  whose  melodic  soul 
Taught  the  dithyramb  to  roll 
Like  forest  fires,  and  sing 
Olympian  suffering, 

Had  carried  his  diviner  lore 
From  Corinth  to  the  sister  shore 

Where  Greece  could  largelier  be. 

Branching  o'er  Italy. 

Then  weighted  with  his  glorious  name 
And  bags  of  gold,  aboard  h^  came 

'Mid  harsh  seafaring  men 

To  Corinth  bound  again. 

The  sailors  eyed  the  bags  and  thought : 
The  gold  is  good,  the  man  is  naught  — 
And  who  shall  track  the  wave 
That  opens  for  his  grave  ?  '' 

With  brawny  arms  and  cruel  eyes 
They  press  around  him  where  he  lies 

In  sleep  beside  his  lyre. 

Hearing  the  Muses  quire. 


439 


He  waked  and  saw  this  wolf -faced  Death. 
Breaking  the  dream  that  filled  his  breath 

With  inspiration  strong 

Of  yet  unchanted  song. 

Take,  take  my  gold  and  let  me  live  ! 
He  prayed,  as  kings  do  when  they  give 
Their  all  with  royal  will, 
Holding  born  kingship  still. 

To  rob  the  living  they  refuse, 
One  death  or  other  he  must  choose, 

Either  the  watery  pall 

Or  wounds  and  burial. 

My  solemn  robe  then  let  me  don, 
Give  me  high  space  to  stand  upon. 
That  dying  I  may  pour 
A  song  unsung  before." 

It  pleased  them  well  to  grant  this  prayer, 
To  hear  for  naught  how  it  might  fare 

With  men  who  paid  their  gold 

For  what  a  poet  sold. 

In  flowing  stole,  his  eyes  aglow 
With  inward  fire,  he  neared  the  prow 

And  took  his  god-like  stand. 

The  cithara  in  hand. 

The  wolfish  men  all  shrank  aloof, 
And  feared  this  singer  might  be  proof 

Against  their  murderous  power, 

After  his  lyric  hour. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  he,  in  liberty  of  song, 

Fearless  of  death  or  other  wrong, 
With  full  spondaic  toll 
Poured  forth  his  mighty  soul : 

Poured  forth  the  strain  his  dream  had  taught, 
A  nome  with  lofty  passion  fraught 

Such  as  makes  battles  won 

On  fields  of  Marathon. 

The  last  long  vowels  trembled  then 
As  awe  within  those  wolfish  men : 

They  said,  with  mutual  stare, 

Some  god  was  present  there. 

But  lo  !  Arion  leaped  on  high, 
Eeady,  his  descant  done,  to  die ; 

Not  asking,  "  Is  it  well  ? 

Like  a  pierced  eagle  fell. 


OH  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE.' 


Longum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movety  quam  hoc 
exiguum.  —  Cicero,  ad  Att.,  xii.  18. 

'^H  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 


Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live 
In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 
In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 
And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 
To  vaster  issues. 


To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Eebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved ; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self. 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world, 


So  to  live  is  heaven : 


442  POEiMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 

And  what  may  yet  be  better  —  saw  within 

A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 

And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 

Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 

To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love  — 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 

Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 

Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 

Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great,  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty  — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

1867. 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


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